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ENGLISH  LIBRARY 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

No.    ^  ■  -^ 


'  Mr-J!j-J!r^''!b-lfi-JSi-JfrT!!n.<if^ 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/englishamericanpOOboylrich 


THE  ENGLISH  AND  AllEEICAN 

POETS  AND  DRAMATISTS 


OF  THE 

VICTORIAN  AGE; 

WITH 

BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTICES. 

BY 

GEORGE  BOYLE, 

Sometime  Professor  of  Modern  Languages  in  the  Royal  Belfast  Academical  Insuiution : 
Teacher  of  the  English  Language  in  the  Royal  Prussian  School  of  Artillery. 


Poets  are  all  who   love,   who   feel    great 
truths  and  tell  them.  — 

Bailey  (F.  stus). 


•TTbra^ 


UNIVERSITY 


FRANKFORT  o.  M. 

PUBLISHED  BY  ADOLPHUS  GESTEWITZ 

1886. 


Gegen  Nachdnick  geschutzt.  —  Uebersetzungsrecht  vorbehalten. 


Entered  in  the  Ministerial  Registry  for  the  Protection  of  Oopj^-Right. 

Entered  according  to  act  of  Congress  in  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of 
Congress  at  Washington. 


Printed  by  Knauer  brothers,  Frankfort  o.  M. 


PREFACE 


r  or  some  years  past  the  conviction  has  been  gra- 
dually^ gaining  ground  in  Germany,  that  a  knowledge 
of  the  English  language,  as  well  as  of  the  England  and 
the  Englisliman  of  our  times,  is  only  to  be  acquired 
by  a  study  of  the  popular  literature  of  the  present 
day.  Germans  who  have  visited  England  relying  on 
their  acquaintance  with  the  writers  of  the  seventeenth 
and  eighteenth  centuries,  have  found  themselves  in  a 
world  where  everything  was  strange  to  them.  They 
daily  heard  a  language  in  many  respects  unlike  that 
of  the  authors  with  whom  they  were  familiar :  they  mis- 
understood the  greater  part  of  what  was  said  to  them, 
were  misunderstood  in  their  turn,  and  saw  themselves  at 
last  necessitated  to  apply  themselves  seriously  to  the 
acquisition  of  a  tongue,  of  wliich  they  had  imagined 
themselves  to  be  perfect  masters. 

From  this  it  by  no  means  follows,  that  a  study 
<.»f  the  older  English  writers  is  valueless,  for  the  man 
who  can  trace  the  language  back  to  its  sources  possesses 
an  immense  advantage,  other  circumstances  being  equal, 
over   the   less  deeply   read  student.     We  merely  mean 


IV 

t^  say,  that  as  the  purpose  of  school  education  is  to 
fit  us  for  some  particular  career  in  life,  common  sense 
would  seem  to  suggest,  that  young'  people  should  be- 
gin by  learning  what  is  likely  to  be  of  service  to 
them  in  after -years.  In  our  bustling,  w^ork- day 
world,  how  few  comparatively  have  leisure  to  devote 
themselves  to  pure  philological  research!  We  live 
in  an  age  of  eager  competition,  one  in  which  much 
must  be  learned  before  a  young  man  is  thought  capable 
of  filling  the  most  modest  position;  and  we  hear  con- 
stant complaints  of  the  overtasking  of  youthful  minds. 
Is  it  not  then  the  part  of  wisdom,  in  the  study  of  lan- 
guages, to  proceed  with  as  little  delay  as  possible  to 
the  practically  useful? 

In  tliis  concise  handbook  the  student  will  find  the 
English  of  our  day  both  in  its  most  elegant  and  its 
most  familiar  form.  And  here  it  will  not  be  out  ot 
place  to  observe,  that  the  language  of  recent  English 
poetry  does  not  materially  dilfer  from  that  of  good 
prose.  In  the  older  poets  "vve  meet  with  a  superabun- 
dance of  metaphors,  conceits,  quips,  and  pedantic 
classical  allusions,  wliich  have  no  place  in  the  poetry 
of  the  Victorian  Age.  When  William  Cobbett  said, 
that  if  a  man  wrote  a  letter  in  the  style  of  Paradise 
Lost,  liis  relations  would  put  him  in  a  madhouse,  and 
take  his  estate,  he  showed  his  ludicrous  want  of  all 
poetical  feeling;  still  the  caustic  pleasantry  is  not  de- 
void of  a  grain  of  truth.  Hut  a  man  might  compose 
an  epistle  in  the  language  of  Tennyson,  without  any 
risk  of  losing  either  his  personal  liberty  or  his  perso- 
nal property. 

The  production  of  the  present  volume  has  been 
truly,  on  the  part  of  the    author,   "a  labour  of  love", 


and  it  has  been  his  endeavour  to  make  it  as  complete 
as  he  could.  He  believes  that  he  has  not  passed  over 
a  single  name  worthy  of  mention,  and  in  choosing  the 
extracts  it  has  been  his  constant  aim  to  introduce  the 
reader  to  the  real  beauties  of  each  writer.  Many  of 
these  selections  are  true  gems,  which  will  be  perused 
with  delight,  and  always  remembered  with  pleasure, 
for,  to  quote  the  words  of  Keats: 

A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  for  ever. 


CONTENTS. 


I.     POETS. 


Page 

Miss  Landon 4 

The  Pole-star 4 

T   H.  Bayly 5 

She   wore   a   Wreath   of 

Roses 6 

Isle  of  Beauty 6 

W.  M.  Praed 7 

Arminius 8 

Allan  Onnningham  ....     9 
A  wet  Sheet  and  a  flowing 
Sea t     9 

Thomas  Hood 10 

Love  thy  Mother    ...   12 

The  Deathbed 13 

The   Dream    of   Eugene 

Aram 13 

Truth  in  Parentheses.  .  19 
I'm  going  to  Bombay  .  21 
Faithless  Nelly  Gray.    .   23 

Rev.  R.  H.  Barham  ...  24 
The  JackdaAv  of  Rheims  25 
The  Confession    ....  29 

H.  Coleridge 30 

Address  to  certain  Gold- 
fishes  30 

W.  Wordsworth 31 

The  Rainbow 32 


Pa^e 

Early  Morning  in  London  32 
Prison  Thoughts  of  Mary 

Stuart    . 33 

Milton 33 

Early  Spring 33 

James  Montgomery    ...  34 

The  Nautilus 34 

Extract  from  G  r  e  e  n  1  a  n  d  35 
Night 35 

John  Wilson 36 

A  sleeping  (Jhild     ...  37 

Mrs.  Southey 38 

Once  upon  a  Time     .    .   38 

T.  N.  Talfourd 39 

The  Poet  and  the  (^hild  39 

Lord  Macaulay 41 

Nasebv  Battle 42 

I^Ty  : 43 

Albert  Smith 44 

Science  and  the  Fairies  44 
The       Foreign   -   Office 

Clerk     .    .' 46 

Mont-Blanc 46 

A.  H.  Clough 48 

The  latest  Decalogue     .  48 

W.  M.  Thackeray    .    .   .    .49 

Napoleon 49 

Peg  of  Limavaddy  ...  50 


vm 


Page 

Samnel  Lover 53 

The  Land  of  the  West  53 

\\^illiam  Carleton  ....  54 

Sir  Turlough,   or,   the 

Churchyard  Bride.    .  55 

The  native  Glens  ...  59 

Rev.  F.  Mahony     ....  60 
The  Flight  of  the  Swal- 
lows       61 

Edward  Lord  Ljrtton  (E. 

L.  Bulwer  Lytton)    .    .  61 

Extract    from   Milton  62 
Extract  from  the  New 

Timon 63 

Song: 65 

The  Flower-girl    ...  65 

Knowledge 66 

The  New  Timon  and  the 

Poet 67 

Rev.  Charles  Kingsley    .  68 

Three  Fishers    ....  68 

The  Day  of  tlie  Lord  .  69 

Lord  Houghton  (R.  Monck- 

ton  Milnes) 69 

Long  ago 70 

W.  and  M.  Howitt     ...  70 

Away  with  the  pleasure  70 

Alas !  what  secret  tears  71 

Alaric  A.  Watts    ....  72 

Ten  years  ago  ....  72 

Philip  James  Bailey    .    .  74 

Quotations  from  F  e  s  t  u  s  74 

Hon.  Mrs.  Norton.    ...  75 

Love  not! 76 

On  Suicide 78 

The  Marchioness's  Letter  79 

Eliza  Cook 79 

('hristmas 79 

The  Welcome  back  .    .  81 

The  happy  ]\Iind  ...  81 

Frances  Brown 82 

The  last  Friends  ...  82 

Lord  Tennyson 83 

The  Miller's  Daughter  .  86 

The  Brook  ......  87 

^om  (to diva.    .    .    .  89 

„     Locksley   Hall  90 

„     theLotos-eaters  91 

the  Princess.  93 


Page 
From  In   Memoriam    95 

„      Maud 97 

,      Idylls    of   the 

King  ....     99 
„      Enoch    Arden  106 
Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere  109 
Charge    of    the    Light 

Brigade Ill 

Rohert  Browning  ....  113 
Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin  116 
From  Prince  Hohen- 

stiel-Schwangau  .   119 
From  Fifine   at  the 

Fair    ....  122 
„      the    House- 
holder ...  124 
How  they  brought  the 
good  News  from  Ghent  125 
Mrs.  E.  B.  Browning  .   .  128 
A    vision    of  Life    and 

Death 128 

Earth 131 

From  the  Drama  of 

Exile.    ...  133 

„      Aurora  Leigh  135 

Robert  Lord  Lytton    .    .141 

From  Fables  in  Song  142 

„      Orval     ....   144 

Algernon  C.  Swinburne .  146 

To  Victor  Hugo    ...  148 

Dante  G.  Rossetti     ...  148 

The  Sea-limits   ....   149 

William  Morris 150 

Matthew  Arnold    .    .    .    .150 

Alfred  Austin 151 

Martin  F.  Tupper  .  .  .  .151 
Honest      fellow ,      sore 

beset 151 

I  love  to  linger    .    .    .152 

Never  go  gloomily    .    .152 

Other  Poets    .    .  .       153 

Poet  Translators  .    .    .    .153 

From  Lord  Derby's 

Iliad  ....   154 
,     Wright's  Iliad  155 
Mountain  Song  .    .    .    .156 
Don  Roderick  after  his 

Defeat 157 

Fount  of  Freshness !    .158 


TX 


II.     DRAMATISTS. 


I'age 

Page 

James  S.  Kiiowles    . 

.    .   159 

From  the  Falcon  .    . 

205 

Frojii  V  i  r  i;  i  n  i  u  ?5 

,    .    160 

,      Becket  .    .    .    . 

207 

,      William    T 

ell  163 

Robert  Browning  .... 

210 

:.      the  Hunchback  169 

Douglas  Jerrold       ... 

211 

„      the  Wife. 

.    .   176 

From     Black-  c  y  e  d 

theLove-Ch 

fise  178 

Susan    .    .    . 

212 

Edward  Lord  Lytton 

.    .   179 

,     Bubbles  of  the 

From    the    Lady 

of 

Day     .    .    .    . 

215 

L  y  0  u  s    . 

.    .   179 

„     Retired    from 

the  Duchess 

dp 

Business  .    . 

217 

la  Valliei 

e  .   184 

John  Poole 

220 

„      Richelieu 

.    .   186 

Charles  Reade 

222 

„     Money    .    . 

.    .   190 

Tom  Taylor 

222 

„      Walpolf*  . 

.    .   191 

From  the  contested 

T.  N.  Talfourd  .   .   . 

.    .   191 

Election  .    . 

223 

From  Ion  .    .    .    . 

.    .   195 

„      an      unequal 

„      G 1  e  n  e  0  0    . 

.    .   198 

Match    .    .    . 

226 

Lord  Tennyson  .    . 

.    .   199 

Thomas  W.  Robertson    . 

228 

From  Harold  .    . 

.    .   200 

Fi'om  Society     .    .    . 

228 

»        „      Queen  Mur 

y   .   204 

Other  dramatic  Writers  . 

230 

AMERICAN 

POETS 

AND  DRAMATISTS. 

Page 

Page 

Edgar  A.  Poe.   .   .   . 

.    .  234 

The  Light  of  Stars  .    . 

259 

The  Bells   .... 

.    .  235 

Mrs.  Osgood 

260 

Annabel  Lee  .    .    . 

.    .  238 

The  Child  playing  with 

H.  R.  Dana 

.    .  239 

a  Watch ...... 

260 

The  Power  of  the  J 

>oiil  240 

Lady  Jane  

261 

0.  W.  Holmes    .   .   . 

.    .   241 

C.  F.  Hoffmann 

262 

Old  Ironsides.    .    . 

.    .  241 

What  is  Solitude?    .    . 

262 

The  Steamboat  .    . 

.    .   242 

E.  F.  EUet .'   . 

263 

Our  Yankee  Giils 

.    .   243 

The  Burial 

263 

Contentment  .    .    . 

•    .  244 

A.  C.  Lynch 

264 

Bayard  Taylor    .   .    . 

.    .   246 

Thoughts  in  a  Library 

264 

From  Faust    .    . 

.    .   247 

J.  G.  Percival 

265 

W.  C.  Bryant .... 

.    .  248 

Poetry 

265 

The  Antiquity  of  Freedom  249 

G.  Morris 

265 

H.  W.  Longfellow    . 

.    .  250 

Woman 

265 

From  Hiawatha 

.    .  252 

E.  Jndson    

266 

Footsteps  of  Angels 

.    .   256 

My  Bird 

267 

Written  in  Italy  . 

.    .  257 

Charles  Sprague    .    .   .   . 

267 

The     Ladder     of 

St. 

J           From  Curiosity    .    . 

267 

Augustine  .    .    . 

.    .  257 

j          The  Brothers 

268 

Truth 

.    .   258 

i           Ode  on  Art 

268 

X 


Page 
J.  G.  Whittier 269 

The  Burning  of  Chicago  270 
J.  R.  Lowell  ......  271 

The    Rich    Man^s    Son 
and  the  Poor  Man's 

Son 271 

Mrs.  L.  H.  Sigourney  .    .  273 

The  thriving  Family    .  273 

Niagara 274 

Indian  Names    ....   275 
Joaqnin  Miller 276 

Dead  in  the  Sierras  .    .  277 
J.  K.  Paulding 277 

Down  the  Ohio  ....  277 


Page 

H.  T.  Tnckerman  ....  278 

Give   me   the  Boon   of 
Love 278 

Tribute  to  Lucy  Hooper  280 
Mrs.  Welby 280 

To  a  Sea-Shell  ....  280 
Mrs.  E.  0.  Smith    ....  282 

Flowers 282 

Mrs.  Lewis 283 

Gibraltar 283 

Other  American  Poets    .  283 

Man  (anonymous) .   .    .  284 
Vocabulary    (English     and 

German) 286 


{  ywiv 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS  AND  DRAMATISTS 
OF  THE  VICTORIAN  AGE. 


If  we  may  be  permitted  to  draw  so  bold  a  parallel, 
we  should  be  tempted  to  compare  the  Victorian  Age 
of  English  literature  to  some  one,  who,  by  a  freak  of 
fortune,  finds  himself  the  heir  to  a  noble  inheritance 
and  an  illustrious  name,  and  who  is  painfully  con- 
scious, that  he  must  spare  no  eiforts,  and  shirk  no  la- 
bour, to  prove  himself  worthy  of  such  a  succession. 
The  marvellous  events  of  the  preceding  half-century  — 
the  French  Revolution,  the  dazzling,  meteoric  career  of 
Napoleon,  and  all  the  strange  episodes  with  which  these 
were  associated  —  had  stirred  up  the  dullest  minds,  and 
awakened  slumbering  genius  throughout  Europe.  In 
England,  the  spirit  of  the  age  embodied  itself,  and 
found  a  vent,  not  only  in  the  enthusiastic  earlier  poetry 
of  Southey,  Shelley,  and  Wordsworth,  but  more  or  less 
in  the  leading  prose -writers  of  the  day.  One  great 
theme  absorbed  the  universal  interest — the  wonderful 
present,  with  its  inscrutable  but  inevitable  influence 
on  the  future  destinies  of  the  human  race.  Such  were 
the  times  that  Avitnessed  the  amazing  outburst  of  genius 
which  forms  the  chief  glory  of  the  reigns  of  George  III. 
and  George  IV.,  and  was  not  quite  exhausted  till  to- 
wards the  close  of  the  short  reign  of  William  IV.  — 
a  period  which  we  shall  hereafter  distinguish  by  the 
simple  general  designation  of  "the  Georgian  Age." 

The  Victorian  Age,  on  the  other  hand,  opens  with 
eleven  years  of  profound  peace.  These,  it  is  true,  were 
years  of  great  commercial  activity,  and  till  then  unex- 
ampled   industrial    progress,    but    they   were   no   less 

1 


—      2      — 

distiiigiiislied  by  a  remarkable  dearth  of  stirring  public 
events.  Even  wlien,  in  1848,  nearl}^  the  whole  of  the  Eu- 
ropean continent  was  convulsed  by  revolutionary  move- 
ments, England  remained  a  passive  and  impassionate, 
though  not  an  indifferent  spectator;  and  the  same  re- 
mark applies  to  the  Italian  war  of  1859,  the  political 
changes  in  Germany  in  the  year  1866,  and  to  the 
French  campaign  of  1870—1871.  In  the  long  interval 
of  forty-five  years,  between  18B7  and  1882,  only  two 
public  events  of  immediate  national  importance  to  Eng- 
land can  be  recorded :  the  Crimean  war  and  the  Indian 
Mutiny ;  and  strongly  as  both  of  these  affected  contem- 
porary English  literature,  their  influence,  like  the  events 
themselves,  was  of  brief  duration. 

In  the  literary  aspect  of  the  period  now  under 
consideration,  we  shall  consequently  find  no  traces  of 
any  influence  from  without,  irresistibly  stimulating  un- 
conscious talent  to  preternatural  fertility  and  preco- 
cious ripeness.  The  age  is  not  given  to  enthusiasm, 
and  is  rather  one  of  sober,  toilsome,  and  tranquil  re- 
search. Hence  it  is,  that  the  Victorian  poets,  aban- 
doning the  older  models,  have  mostly  followed  in  the 
path  marked  out  for  them  by  Wordsworth  in  his  later 
style  of  poetry,  seeking  their  subjects  mainly  within 
themselves,  and  uniting  them  with  just  so  much  action, 
and  so  much  of  external  life,  as  they  considered 
necessary  to  illustrate  their  meaning  and  secure  the 
reader's  attention.  This  leaning  towards  philosophical 
poetry  will  hardly  surprise  us  when  we  recollect,  that 
at  the  accession  of  Queen  Victoria,  in  1837,  Wordsworth 
was  the  only  great  living  poet,  who  still  continued 
to  write.  John  Keats  had  died  in  1821,  Shelley  in 
1822,  Bloomfield  and  Wolfe  in  1823,  Byron  in  1824, 
Bishop  Heber  in  1826,  Crabbe  in  1832,  Sotheby  in 
1833,  Coleridge  and  Lamb  in  1834,  Mrs.  Hemans  and 
Hogg  in  1835.  Southey,  it  is  true,  lived  till  1843, 
but  the  latter  years  of  his  life  were  clouded  by  hope- 
less idiocy.  Campbell  survived  till  1844,  and  Moore 
till  1852,  but  for  a  long  time  before  their  death,  the 
chief  labours  of  both  liad"  been  biogi*aphical,  critical, 


or  historical.  Rogers  lived  till  1855,  but  lie  produced 
nothing  of  importance  after  1822;  and  among  the  few 
other  poets,  whose  life  was  prolonged  into  the  Victo- 
rian Age,  there  was  not  one  whose  intellectual  caliber 
equalled  that  of  AVordsworth. 

The  three  pre-eminent  dramatists  of  the  Victorian 
Age  are  Knowles,  Talfourd,  and  Lord  Lytton.  In  the 
two  former  we  discover  a  decided  tendency  to  return 
to  the  great  masters  of  the  English  and  the  Greek 
stage ;  while  Lord  Lytton  seems  more  ambitious  of  emu- 
lating the  flowing  and  musical  diction  of  Byron's  dra- 
mas. Mr.  Knowles,  it  is  true,  produced  a  great  deal 
previous  to  1837,  but  as  he  lived  for  twenty-five  years 
after  the  accession  of  Queen  Victoria,  and  during  this 
time  his  pieces,  in  which  for  several  years  he  continued 
to  perform  liimself,  attained  the  acme  of  their  populari- 
ty, we  have  not  hesitated  to  assign  him  a  place  among 
the  Victorian  dramatists. 

If  it  be  asked :  what  is  the  great  characteristic  of 
the  Victorian  literature  in  general?  we  shall  reply: 
its  infinite  variety,  and  its  Avideness  of  range.  It  can- 
not, indeed,  boast  of  a  dramatist  like  Shakespeare,  a 
poet  like  Milton,  or  a  philosopher  like  Bacon,  but  it 
has  left  no  department  of  learning  untouched,  no  sort 
of  elegant  writing  unattempted.  With  rare  exceptions, 
too,  the  literature  of  the  period  respires  a  genial,  hu- 
manizing spirit  which  in  the  older  literature  we  should 
seek  in  vain.  Even  the  satire  of  the  Victorian  Age, 
when  most  pungent,  will  compare  most  favourably 
with  the  scathing  sarcasm  of  Swift,  or  the  acrimonious 
venom  of  Churchill. 

We  now  proceed  to  our  task  of  enumerating  the 
English  Poets  and  Dramatists  of  the  Victorian  Age,  who 
can  justly  lay  claim  to  literary  distinction.  We  shall 
begin  with  the  small  band,  who,  like  setting  stars 
sparkling  in  the  dawn,  form  a  connecting  link  between 
the  Victorian  and  the  Georgian  era,  and  then  pass  on, 
to  reach  gradually,  and  without  abrupt  transition,  the 
writers  who  have  shed  on  this  age  the  full  and  continuous 
lustre  of  their  genius. 

1* 


POETS. 


Miss  Landon. 

Letitia  Elizabeth  Landon  [1802— 1838],  born 
at  Hans  Place,  Chelsea,  published  her  earliest  poetical 
compositions  in  the  Literary  Gazette  with  the  sig- 
nature L.  E.  L.  Her  most  important  work  was  the 
Improvisatrice.  In  1838  she  married  Mr.  George 
Maclean,  governor  of  Cape  Coast  Castle,  and  accompa- 
nied her  husband  to  Africa,  but  about  four  months 
later  was  found  dead  in  her  room,  in  consequence,  it 
was  believed,  of  taking  an  overdose  of  prussic  acid. 
Her  last  verses,  addi'essed  to  the  Pole-star,  which  she 
had  watched  on  her  voyage  till  it  sunk  below  the 
liorizon,  cannot  fail  to  awaken  a  tender  and  melan- 
choly interest  in  the  bosom  of  every  reader: 

THE  POLE-STAR. 

A  star  has  left  the  kindling  sky  — 

A  lovely  northern  light; 
How  many  planets  are  on  high, 

But  that  has  left  the  night. 

I  miss  its  bright  familiar  face, 

It  was  a  friend  to  me; 
Associate  with  my  native  place, 

And  friends  beyond  the  sea. 

It  rose  upon  our  English  sky. 

Shone  o'er  our  English  land, 
And  brought  back  many  a  loving  eye, 

And  many  a  gentle  hand. 

It  seemed  to  answer  to  my  thought, 

It  called  the  past  to  mind, 
And  with  its  welcome  presence  brought 

AU  I  had  left  behind. 

The  voyage  it  lights  no  longer,  ends 

Soon  on  a  foreign  shore; 
How  can  I  but  recall  the  friends 

That  I  may  see  no  more? 


Fresli  from  the  pain  it  was  to  part  — 
How  could  I  bear  the  pain? 

Yet  strong-  the  omen  in  my  lieart 
That  says  —  We  meet  again. 

Meet  witli  a  deeper,  dearer  love. 
For  absence  shows  the  worth 

Of  all  from  which  we  then  remove, 
Friends,  home  and  native  earth. 

Thou  lovely  polar  star,  mine  eyes 
Still  turned  the  first  on  thee, 

Till  I  have  felt  a  sad  surprise 

That  none  looked  up  with  me. 

But  thou  hast  sunk  upon  the  wave, 
Thy  radiant  place  unknown; 

I  seem  to  stand  beside  a  grave. 
And  stand  by  it  alone. 

Farewell!  ah,  would  to  me  were  given 

A  power  upon  thy  light! 
What  words  upon  oiu'  English  heaven 

Thy  loving  rays  should  write! 

Kind  messages  of  love  and  hope 
Upon  thy  rays  should  be; 

Thy  shining  orbit  should  have  scope 
Scarcely  enough  for  me. 

Oh,  fancy  vain  as  it  is  fond, 

And  little  needed  too; 
My  friends!  I  need  not  look  beyond 

My  heart  to  look  for  you. 


T.  H.   Bayly. 

The  most  successful  of  modern  song- writers,  if  we 
except  Thomas  Moore,  was  ThomasHaynesBayly, 
a  native  of  Bath,  who  was  born  in  1797,  and  died 
in  1839,  at  the  comparatively  early  age  of  forty-two. 
His  songs,  Td  he  a  Butterfly;  Oh,  no,  we  never  mention 
her;  Isle  of  Beauty;  the  Soldier's  Tear;  We  met — 'twas  in 
a  crowd;  She  wore  a  wreath  of  Roses,  long  maintained, 
and  some  of  them  still  maintain,  their  popularity.  Though 
educated  for  the  church.  Mr.  Bayly  adopted  literature 
as  a  profession,  and  the  last  years  of  his  life  were 
years  of  constant  care  and  struggle. 


SHE  WORE  A  WREATH  OF  ROSES. 

She  wore  a  wreath  of  roses, 

The  night  that  first  we  met; 
Her  lovely  face  was  smiling 

Beneath  her  curls  of  jet. 
Her  footstep  had  the  lightness,  • 

Her  voice  the  joyous  tone, 
The  tokens  of  a  youthful  heart 

^Vliere  sorrow  is  unknown. 
I  saw  her  but  a  moment, 

Yet  methinks  I  see  her  now, 
With  a  wreath  of  summer  flowers 

Upon  her  snowy  brow. 

A  wreath  of  orange  blossoms 

When  next  we  met  she  wore; 
Th'  expression  of  her  features 

Was  more  thoughtful  than  before; 
And  standing  by  her  side  was  one. 

Who  strove,  and  not  in  vain. 
To  soothe  her  leaving  that  dear  home 

She  ne'er  might  view  again. 
I  saw  her  but  a  moment. 

Yet  methinks  I  see  her  now, 
With  the  wreath  of  orange  blossoms 

Upon  her  snowy  brow. 

And  once  again  I  see  that  brow, 

No  bridal  wreath  was  there; 
The  widow's  sombre  cap  conceals 

Her  once  luxuriant  hair. 
She  weeps  in  silent  solitude, 

And  there  is  no  one  near 
To  press  her  hand  within  his  own, 

And  wipe  away  the  tear. 
I  saw  her  broken-hearted, 

Yet  methinks  I  see  her  now 
In  the  pride  of  youth  and  beauty, 

With  a  garland  on  her  brow. 

ISLE  OF  BEAUTY. 

Shades  of  evening!  close  not  o'er  us. 

Leave  our  lonely  bark  a  while ; 
Mom,  alas!  will  not  restore  us 

Yonder  dim  and  distant  isle. 
Still  my  fancy  can  discover 

Sunny  spots  where  friends  may  dwell; 
Darker  shadows  round  us  hover: 

Tsl..  of  beauty,  fare  thee  well! 


—      7      — 

Tis  the  hour  when  happy  faces 

Smile  around  the  taper's  lig'ht ; 
Who  will  till  our  vacant  places? 

Who  shall  sing-  our  songs  to-night? 
Through  the  mist  that  floats  above  us 

Softly  chimes  the  vesper  bell, 
Like  the  voice  of  those  that  love  us, 

Breathing  fondly,  fare  thee  well! 

Round  our  ship  the  waves  are  breaking. 

As  I  pace  the  deck  along, 
And  my  eyes  in  vain  are  seeking 

Some  green  leaf  to  rest  upon. 
What  would  I  not  give  to  wander 

Where  my  lovVt  companions  dwell! 
Absence  makes  the  heart  grow  fonder: 

Isle  of  beauty,  fare  thee  well ! 


W.   M.    Praed. 

Winthrop  Mackwortli  Praed  [1802  —  1839] 
was  born  in  London,  and  educated  at  Eton  and  Cam- 
bridge. He  was  called  to  the  bar  in  1829,  and  ob- 
tained a  seat  in  Parliament  in  the  following  year.  About 
the  same  time  his  health  began  to  fail,  and  he  died 
of  consumption  at  the  early  age  of  37.  His  poems 
were  collected,  and  published  in  1864,  preceded  by  a 
biographical  notice  by  the  Eev.  Derwent  Coleridge. 
From  his  numerous  poems  we  select  one  which  must 
stir  the  heart  of  every  German  reader.  The  subject 
is  the  last  interview  of  Arminius  [Hermann  der  Deutsche] 
and  his  unpatriotic  brother  Flavins,  as  he  had  chosen 
to  call  himself,  on  the  opposite  banks  of  the  Weser, 
some  time  after  the  defeat  of  Varus,  and  subsequent 
to  the  capture  of  Thusnelda.  We  learn  from  Tacitus 
[Annals  II.  9,  10]  that  at  first  each  of  the  brothers  en- 
deavoured to  gain  over  the  other  to  his  own  party, 
but  as  the  arguments  and  persuasions  on  both  sides 
proved  equally  unavailing,  they  parted  in  resentment,  but 
not  before  Arminius  had  overwhelmed  his  recreant  brother 
with  reproaches  such  as  Praed  has  here  attributed  to 
him.     The  indignant  patriot  is  supposed  to  speak  at 


—      8      — 

the  moment  when  Flavins,  calling-  alond  for  his  horse 
and  his  arms,  made  a  show  of  crossing  the  river,  to 
inflict  a  chastisement  on  his  fraternal  foe. 

Back,  back!    he  fears  not  foaming  flood 

Who  fears  not  steel-clad  line: 
No  warrior  thou  of  German  blood, 

No  brother  thou  of  mine. 
Go,  earn  Kome's  chain  to  load  thy  neck, 

Her  gems  to  deck  thj'^  hilt; 
And  blazon  lionour's  hapless  wreck 

With  all  the  gauds  of  guilt. 

But  would' st  thou  have  me  share  the  prey? 

By  all  that  I  have  done, 
The  Varian  bones  tliat  day  by  day 

Lie  whitening  in  the  sun, 
The  legion's  trampled  panoply, 

The  eagle's  shattered  wing, 
I  would  not  1)6  for  earth  or  sky 

So  scorn'd  and  mean  a  thing. 

Ho,  call  me  here  the  wizard,  boy. 

Of  dark  and  subtle  skill, 
To  agonise  but  not  destroy, 

To  curse,  but  not  to  kill. 
When  swords  are  out,  and  sliriek  and  shout 

Leave  little  room  for  prayer, 
No  fetter  on  man's  arm  or  heart 

Hangs  half  so  heavy  there. 

I  curse  him  by  the  gifts  the  land 

Hath  won  from  him  and  Eome, 
The  riving  axe,  the  wasting  brand. 

Rent  forest,  blazing  home; 
I  curse  him  by  our  country's  gods. 

The  terrible,  the  dark. 
The  breakers  of  the  Roman  rod. 

The  smiters  of  the  bark. 

Oh,  misery!  that  such  a  ban 

On  such  a  brow  should  be; 
Why  comes  he  not,  in  battle's  van 

His  country's  chief  to  be? 
To  stand  a  comrade  by  my  side. 

Tlie  sharer  of  my  fame. 
And  worthy  (.f  a  brotlier's  pride, 

And  of  a  brother's  name? 


9 


But  it  in  past!  —  where  heroes  press, 

And  cowards  bend  the  knee, 
Anniiiius  is  not  hrotlierless. 

His  brethren  are  the  free. 
They  come  around:  —  one  hour,  and  light 

Will  fade  from  turf  and  tide, 
Then  onward,  onward  to  the  fij2:ht. 

With  darkness  for  our  guide. 

To-night,  to-night,  when  we  shall  meet 

In  combat  face  to  face. 
Then  only  would  Arminius  greet 

The  renegade's  embrace. 
The  canker  of  Rome's  guilt  shall  be 

Upon  his  dying  name; 
And  as  he  lived  in  slavery. 

So  shall  he  fall  in  shame. 


Allan  Cunningham. 

Allan  Cunuiiigliam,  born  in  Dumfriesshire  in 
Scotland,  in  the  year  1784,  lived  till  1842.  He  wrote 
poems  and  songs,  chiefly  but  not  exclusively  in  the 
Scottish  dialect,  and  a  drama  with  the  title:  Sir  Mar- 
maduke  Maxwell  One  of  his  finest  effusions  is  the 
sea-song\  A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea: 

A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea, 

A  wind  that  follows  fast. 
And  fills  the  white  and  rustling  sail, 

And  bends  the  gallant  mast; 
And  bends  the  gallant  mast,  my  boys, 

While,  like  the  eagle  free. 
Away  the  good  ship  flies,  and  leaves 

Old  England  on  the  lee.*) 

Oh  for  a  soft  and  gentle  wind! 

I  lieard  a  fair  one  crj'^ ; 
But  give  to  me  the  snoring  breeze, 

And  white  waves  heaving  high; 
And  white  waves  heaving  high,  my  boys. 

The  good  ship  tight  and  free  — 
The  world  of  waters  is  our  home, 

And  merrv  men  are  we. 


*)  The   lee  side  of  a  ship  is   the  side  opposite   to  that  against 
which  the  wind  blows. 


—     10     — 

There's  tempest  iu  you  horned  moon, 

And  lightning  in  yon  cloud; 
And  hark  the  music,  mariners, 

The  wind  is  piping  loud; 
The  wind  is  piping  loud,  my  boys, 

The  lightning  flashing  free  — 
While  the  hollow  oak  oui*  palace  is, 

Our  heritage  the  sea. 


Thomas  Hood. 

We  now  come  to  a  poet  whose  merits  are  so 
manifold  and  strangely  diverse  —  we  mean  Thomas 
Hood  [1798 — 1845]  —  that  we  feel  puzzled  to  know 
whether  we  should  call  him  a  serious  or  a  Comic 
writer.  Perhaps  no  man  was  ever  at  once  such  a^con- 
summate  master  of  the  art  of  provoking  immoderate 
laughter,  of  eliciting  sympathy  with  the  unfortunate, 
and  of  melting  his  readers  into  tears.  His  friend, 
Charles  Lamb,  described  him  admirably  in  his  pun- 
ning application  of  the  popular  phrase,  that  he  carried 
two  faces  [a  serious  and  a  comic  one]  under  one 
hood.  This  remarkable  man  was  born  in  London, 
though  his  father  was  a  native  of  Dundee  in  Scotland. 
Young  Hood  was  first  sent  to  a  private  school  kept 
by  two  maiden  sisters  with  the  strange  name  of  Hogs- 
flesh,  and  then  transferred  to  a  "finishing  school"  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  London.  His  father  died  in  1811, 
and  the  boy's  health  becoming  delicate,  his  mother 
sent  him  to  his  relations  in  Dundee,  where  he  remained 
two  years.  On  his  return  to  London  he  was  sent 
to  his  maternal  uncle,  Mr.  Sands,  to  learn  the  art 
of  engi-aving;  and  he  made  such  good  progress  that 
he  afterwards  usually  furnished  the  illustrations  for 
his  own  poems ;  but  it  was  not  long  till  he  resolved 
to  maintain  himself  exclusively  by  his  pen.  His  ear- 
liest productions  were  contributions  to  the  London  Ma- 
gazine, in  which  journal  the  first  series  of  his  Whims 
and  Oddities  originally  appeared.  A  second  and  a 
third  series  were  given  to  the  world  between  1826  and 
1828;  and  in  1829  he  commenced  the  Comic  Annual, 
which   contiiin<"1   for  nine  years,   and  was  very  profi- 


—   11   — 

table.  He  next  edited  an  annual  called  the  Gem,  and 
for  this  work  be  wrote  the  Dream  of  Eugene  Aram, 
appending  to  it  as  an  explanatory  note:  "The  late 
Admiral  Burney  went  to  school  at  an  establishment 
where  the  unhappy  Eugene  Aram  was  usher  subsequent 
to  his  crime.  The  admiral  stated  that  ilram  was  gene- 
rally liked  by  the  boys ;  and  that  he  used  to  discourse 
to  them  about  murder  in  somewhat  of  the  spirit  which 
is  attributed  to  him  in  this  poem."  In  1843  Hood 
became  editor  of  the  New  Monthly  Magazine.  His  last 
periodical  was  Hood's  Magazine,  which  he  continued  to 
conduct  till  within  a  few  weeks  of  his  death. 

Of  Hood's  serious  poems  the  most  important  are  the 
Plea  of  the  Midsummer  Fairies,  which  he  dedicated  to 
Charles  Lamb,  and  his  Hero  and  Leander,  dedicated  to 
S.  T.  Coleridge.  In  the  first  of  these  it  was  his  design, 
he  tells  us,  to  celebrate,  by  an  allegory  that  immorta- 
lity which  Shakespeare  has  conferred  on  the  fairy  my- 
thology by  liis  Midsummer  Night's  Dream.  "It  would 
have  been  a  pity,"  he  adds,  "for  such  a  race  to  go 
extinct,  even  though  they  were  but  as  the  Butterflies 
that  hover  about  the  leaves  and  blossoms  of  the  vi- 
sible world."  The  subject  of  the  second  is  of  course 
borrowed  from  classical  antiquity.  The  Bridge  of  Sighs 
tells  its  own  story.  In  Lycus  the  Centaur,  a  water- 
nymph,  by  whom  the  hero  is  beloved,  desiring  to  render 
him  immortal,  has  recourse  to  Circe,  but  the  treache 
rous  sorceress  gives  her  an  incantation  to  pronounce 
which  should  change  him  into  a  horse.  The  horrible 
effect  of  the  charm  causes  the  nymph  to  break  off  in 
the  midst,  and  Lycus  becomes  a  Centaur.  Hood's 
last  serious  production  was  the  Song  of  the  Shirt,  which 
appeared  in  the  London  Punch,  and  was  intended  to 
awaken  public  sympathy  for  the  over -worked  and  ill- 
paid  sempstresses  of  London.  This  now  celebrated 
poem  begins  as  follows: 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread. 


—     12     — 

Stitch  —  stitch  —  stitch! 

In  poverty,  hunger  and  dirt; 
And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch 

She  sung  the  Song  of  the  Shirt ! 

Work  —  work  —  work! 

While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof! 
And  work  —  work  —  work! 

Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof! 
It's  oh!  to  be  a  slave, 

Along  with  the  barbarous  Turk! 
^Vhere  woman  has  never  a  soul  to  save, 

If  this  is  Christian  work! 

The  forlorn  needle-woman  longs  for  the  fresh  air, 
for  a  brief  respite  from  her  monotonous  toil: 
Oh!  but  to  breathe  the  breath 

Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  sweet  — 
With  the  sky  above  my  head, 

And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet. 
For  only  one  short  hour 

To  feel  as  I  used  to  feel, 
Before  I  knew  the  woes  of  want, 

And  the  walk  that  costs  a  meal! 

Oh!  but  for  one  short  hour! 

A  respite  however  brief! 
Xo  blessed  leisure  for  love  or  hope. 

But  only  time  for  grief! 
A  little  weeping  would  ease  my  heart. 

But  in  their  briny  bed 
My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  drop 

Hinders  needle  and  thread. 

Tlie  remaining  verses  are  almost  too  painful  for 
quotation.  We  prefer  giving  a  few  other  specimens 
of  Hood's  serious  style. 

TO  A  CHILD  EMBRACING  HIS  MOTHER. 

Love  thy  mother,  little  one! 

Kiss  and  clasp  her  neck  again,  — 

Hereafter  she  may  have  a  son 

Will  kiss  and  clasp  that  neck  in  vain. 

Love  thy  mother,  little  one! 

(laze  upon  her  living  eyes. 
And  mirror  })ack  her  love  to  thee,  — 
Hereafter  tliou  may'st  shudder  sighs 
To  meet  tiiem  when  tliey  cannot  see. 

(iaze  upon  lier  living  eyes. 


—    ]■)    — 

Press  her  lips,  the  while  they  glow 
With  love  that  the.y  have  often  told,  — 
Hereafter  thou  may'st  press  in  woe, 
And  kiss  tliem  till  thine  own  are  cold. 

Press  her  lips  tlie  wliile  they  glow ! 

Oil!  revere  her  raven  hair! 
Although  it  he  not  silver  grey; 
Too  early  Death,  led  on  by  Care, 
May  snatch  save  one  dear  lock  away. 

Oh!  revere  her  raven  hair! 

Pray  for  her  at  eve  and  morn 
That  Heaven  may  long  the  stroke  defer,  — 
For  thou  may' St  live  the  liour  forlorn 
Wiien  thou  wilt  ask  to  die  with  her. 

Pray  for  her  at  eve  and  morn! 


THE  DEATHBED. 

We  watch'd  her  breathing  through  the  night, 

Her  breathing  soft  and  low, 
As  in  her  breast  the  wave  of  life 

Kept  heaving  to  and  fro. 

So  silently  we  seem'd  to  speak, 

So  slowly  moved  about; 
As  we  had  lent  her  half  our  powers 

To  eke  her  living  out. 

Our  very  hopes  belied  oiu'  fears. 
Our  fears  our  hopes  belied  — 

We  thought  her  dying  when  she  slept. 
And  sleeping  when  she  died. 

For  when  the  morn  came  dim  and  sad. 

And  chill  with  early  showers. 
Her  quiet  eyelids  closed  —  she  had 

Another  morn  than  ours. 


THE  DREAM  OF  EUGENE  ARAM. 

'Twas  in  the  prime  of  summer  time, 

An  evening  calm  and  cool. 
And  four-and-twenty  happy  boys 

Came  bounding  out  of  school:  ' 
There  were  some  that  ran  and  some  that  leapt, 

Like  troutlets  in  a  pool. 


14 


Away  they  sped  with  gamesome  minds, 

And  souls  untouched  by  sin. 
To  a  level  mead  they  came,  and  there 

They  drave  the  wickets  in. 
Pleasantly  shone  tlie  setting  sun 

Over  the  town  of  Lynn. 

Like  sportive  deer  they  coursed  about, 

And  shouted  as  they  ran.  — 
Turning  to  mirth  all  things  of  earth, 

As  only  boyhood  can; 
But  the  Usher  sat  remote  from  all, 

A  melancholy  man! 

His  hat  was  off,  his  vest  apart, 

To  catch  heaven's  blessed  breeze; 

For  a  burning  thought  was  in  his  brow, 
And  his  bosom  ill  at  ease: 

So  he  leaned  his  head  upon  his  hands,  and  read 
The  book  upon  his  knees. 

Leaf  after  leaf  he  turned  it  o'er, 

Nor  ever  glanced  aside, 
For  the  peace  of  his  soul  he  read  that  book 

In  the  golden  eventide: 
Much  study  had  made  him  very  lean, 

And  pale,  and  leaden-eyed. 

At  last  he  shut  the  ponderous  tome, 

With  a  fast  and  fervent  grasp. 
He  strained  the  dusty  covers  close, 

And  fixed  the  brazen  hasp: 
"0  God!  could  I  so  close  my  mind, 

And  clasp  it  with  a  clasp!" 

Then  leaping  on  his  feet  upright. 

Some  moody  turns  he  took,  — 
Now  up  the  mead,  then  down  the  mead, 

And  past  a  shady  nook,  — 
And  lo!  he  saw  a  little  boy 

That  pored  upon  a  book. 

''My  gentle  lad,  what  is't  you  read  — 

Romance  or  fairy  fable? 
Or  is  it  some  historic  page 

Of  kings  and  crowns  unstable?" 
The  young  boy  gave  an  upward  glance. 
"It  is,  the  Death  of  Abel." 


—     15     — 

The  usher  took  six  hasty  strides. 
As  sinit  with  sudden  pain,  — 

Six  hasty  strides  beyond  the  place, 
Then  sh)\vly  back  again ; 

And  now  he  sat  beside  tlie  lad, 
And  talked  with  him  of  Cain ; 

And,  long-  since  then,  of  bloody  men. 
Whose  deeds  tradition  saves; 

Of  lonely  folk  cut  off  unseen, 
And  hid  in  sudden  graves; 

Of  horrid  stabs,  in  groves  forlorn. 
And  murders  done  in  caves. 

And  how  the  sprites  of  injured  men 
Shriek  upward  from  the  sod.  — 

Ay,  how  the  ghostly  hand  will  point 
To  show  the  burial  clod ; 

And  unknoMTi  facts  of  guilty  acts 
Ai-e  seen  in  dreams  from  God  I 

He  told  how  murderers  walk  the  earth 
Beneath  the  curse  of  Cain,  — 

With  crimson  clouds  before  their  eyes, 
And  flames  about  their  brain. 

For  blood  has  left  upon  their  souls 
Its  everlasting  stain! 

"And  well",  quoth  he,  "I  know  for  truth 
Their  pangs  must  be  extreme,  — 

Woe,  woe,  unutterable  woe,  — 
Who  spill  life's  sacred  stream! 

For  why?  Methought  last  night  I  wrought 
A  murder,  in  a  dream! 

One  that  had  never  done  me  wTong  — 

A  feeble  man  and  old; 
I  led  him  to  a  lonely  field, 

The  moon  shone  clear  and  cold: 
Now  here,  said  I,  this  man  shall  die, 

And  I  will  have  his  gold! 

Two  sudden  blows  with  a  ragged  stick, 
And  one  with  a  heavy  stone. 

One  hurried  gash  with  a  hasty  knife. 
And  then  the  deed  was  done: 

There  was  nothing  lying  at  my  foot 
But  lifeless  flesh  and  bone! 


—     16     — 

Nothing"  but  lifeless  flesh  and  bone! 

That  could  not  do  me  ill; 
And  yet  I  feared  him  all  the  more, 

For  lying  there  so  still: 
There  was  a  manhood  in  his  look, 

That  murder  could  not  kill! 

And  lo!  the  universal  air 

Seemed  lit  with  ghastly  flame; 

Ten  thousand,  thousand  dreadful  eyes 
Were  looking  down  in  blame: 

I  took  the  dead  man  by  his  hand, 
And  called  upon  his  name! 

0  God!  it  made  me  quake  to  see 

Such  sense  within  the  slain! 
But  when  I  touched  the  lifeless  clay. 

The  blood  gushed  out  amain! 
For  every  clot,  a  burning  spot 

Was  scorching  in  my  brain! 

My  head  was  like  an  ardent  coal, 

My  heart  as  solid  ice; 
My  wretched,  wretched  soul,  I  knew, 

Was  at  the  Devil's  price: 
A  dozen  times  I  groaned:  the  dead 

Had  never  groaned  but  tAvice. 

And  now,  from  forth  the  frowning  sky 
From  the  Heaven's  topmost  height, 

1  heard  a  voice  —  the  awful  voice  — 

Of  the  blood-avenging  sprite : 
Thou  guilty  man  !  take  up  thy  dead. 
And  hide  it  from  my  sight. 

I  took  the  dreary  body  up. 

And  cast  it  in  a  stream,  — 
A  sluggish  Avater,  black  as  ink, 

The  depth  was  so  extreme: 
My  gentle  boy,  remember  this 

Is  nothing  but  a  dream. 

Down  went  the  corse  with  a  hollow  plunge, 

And  vanished  hi  the  pool; 
Anon  I  cleansed  my  bloody  hands. 

And  washed  my  forehead  cool, 
And  sat  among  the  ui-chins  young 

That  evening  in  the  school. 


—     17     — 

0  Heaven!  to  think  of  their  white  souls, 

And  mine  so  black  and  g^rim! 

1  could  not  share  in  childish  prayer, 

Nor  join  in  evening  hymn : 
Like  a  devil  of  the  pit  I  seemed 
With  holy  cherubim! 

And  peace  Avent  with  them  one  and  all, 
And  eacli  calm  pillow  spread ; 

But  (xuilt  was  my  grim  chamberlain 
That  lighted  me  to  bed; 

And  drew  my  midnight  curtains  round 
With  fingers  bloody  red! 

All  night  I  lay  in  agony. 

In  anguish  dark  and  deep, 

31y  fevered  eyes  I  dared  not  close, 
But  stared  aghast  at  Sleep: 

For  Sin  had  rendered  unto  her 
The  Keys  of  Hell  to  keep ! 

All  night  I  lay  in  agony. 

From  weary  chime  to  chime, 

With  one  besetting  horrid  hint 
That  racked  me  all  the  time ; 

A  mighty  .Yearning,  like  the  first 
Fierce  ilnpulse  unto  crime! 

One  stern  tyrannic  thought  that  made 
All  other  thoughts  its  slave ; 

Stronger  and  stronger  every  pulse 
Did  that  temptation  crave,  — 

Still  urging  me  to  go  and  see 
The  dead  man  in  his  grave ! 

Heavily  I  rose  up  as  soon 

As  light  was  in  the  sky, 
And  sought  the  black,  accursed  pool 

With  a  wild  misgiving  eye; 
And  I  saw  the  Dead  in  the  river  bed, 

For  the  faithless  stream  was  dry. 

]\Ierrily  rose  the  lark,  and  shook 
The  dew-drop  from  its  wing; 

But  I  never  marked  its  morning  flight, 
I  never  heard  it  sing: 

For  I  was  stooping  once  again 
Under  the  horrid  thing. 


—     18     — 

With  breathless  speed,  like  a  soul  in  chase, 

I  took  him  up  and  ran; 
There  was  no  time  to  dig-  a  grave 

Before  the  day  began: 
In  a  lonesome  wood,  with  heaps  of  leaves 

I  hid  the  murdered  man! 

And  all  tliat  day  I  read  in  school. 

But  my  thoughts  were  otherwhere, 
As  soon  as  the  mid-day  task  was  done.  — 

In  secret  I  Avas  there: 
And  a  mighty  wind  had  swept  the  leaves, 

And  still  the  corse  was  bare! 

Then  down  I  cast  me  on  my  face, 

And  first  began  to  weep, 
For  I  knew  my  secret  then  was  one 

That  earth  refused  to  keep : 
Or  land  or  sea,  though  he  should  be 

Ten  thousand  fathoms  deep. 

So  wills  the  fierce  avenging  Sprite, 

Till  blood  for  blood  atones! 
Ay,  though  he's  buried  in  a  cave 

And  trodden  doA\Ti  with  stones, 
And  years  have  rotted  off  his  flesh, 

The  world  shall  see  his  bones! 

0  God!  that  horrid,  horrid  dream 

Besets  me  now  awake! 
Again  —  again,  with  dizzy  brain 

The  Imman  life  I  take. 
And  my  right  hand  grows  raging  hot, 

Like  Cranmer's  at  the  stake. 

And  still  no  peace  for  tlie  restless  clay. 

Will  wave  or  mould  allow; 
The  horrid  thing  pursues  my  soul  — 

It  stands  before  me  now!" 
The  fearful  boy  looked  up,  and  saw 

Huge  drops  upon  his  brow. 

That  very  night,  while  gentle  sleep 

The  urchin-eyelids  kissed, 
Two  stern-faced  men  set  out  from  Lynn, 

Through  the  cold  and  heavy  mist; 
And  Eugene  Aram  walked  between 

With  gyves  upon  his  Avrist. 


—     19     — 

Anioiio*  Hood's  humorous  and  satirical  poems,  none 
gives  us  a  better  idea  of  his  man3^sidedness  and  the  ver- 
satility of  his  genius,  than  the  story  of  Miss  Kilmansegg 
and  her  precious  Leg;  the  intention  of  wliich  is  to 
ridicule  purse-pride  and  vulgar  love  of  display.  The 
heroine  fractures  her  leg  badly  when  out  riding,  and 
the  injured  limb  being  amputated,  she  insists  on  repla- 
cing it  by  a  golden  leg,  as  a  means  of  advertising  her 
great  wealth,  and  at  the  same  time  of  attracting  sui- 
tors. She  finds  a  husband,  but  soon  discovers  that 
riches  are  not  necessarily  allied  with  domestic  happiness ; 
and  one  day  the  gentleman,  in  a  violent  passion,  seizes 
the  costly  limb,  and  knocks  out  her  brains  with  it, 
while  she  is  lying  in  bed.  Impossible  as  it  is  to  give, 
by  a  brief  extract,  any  adequate  idea  of  the  wit,  the 
odd  fancies,  and  we  will  even  add,  the  philosophy  of 
this  pretty  long  poem,  we  cannot  refrain  from  quoting 
the  description  of  Miss  Kilmansegg's  happy  parents, 
as  they  appeared  at  her  christening: 

To  paint  the  maternal  Kilmansegg- 
The  pen  of  an  Eastern  Poet  would  beg, 

And  need  an  elaborate  sonnet; 
How  she  sparkled  A\ith  gems  whenever  she  stirr'd 
And  her  head  niddle-noddled  at  every  word, 
And  seem'd  so  happy,  a  Paradise  Bird 

Had  nidificated  upon  it. 

And  Sir  Jacob  the  father  strutted  and  bow'd, 
And  smiled  to  himself,  and  laughed  aloud, 

To  think  of  his  heiress  and  daughter; 
And  then  in  his  pockets  he  made  a  grope, 
And  then,  in  the  fulness  of  joy  and  hope, 
Seem'd  washing  his  hands  with  invisible  soap 

In  imperceptible  water.*) 

In  one  of  Hood's  minor  poems,  he  humorously  ex- 
poses some  of  the  petty  hypocrisies  of  social  life.  It  is 
called  Domestic  Asides,  or  Truth  in  Parentheses: 

I  really  take  it  very  kind. 

This  visit,  Mrs.  Skinner! 
I  have  not  seen  you  such  an  age  — 
[The  wretch  has  come  to  dinner!] 

*)  Humorous  description  of  his  rubbing  his  hands  together  to 
express  his  delight. 

2* 


—     20     — 

Your  (laughters,  too,  what  loves  of  girls! 

What  heads  for  painters'  easels! 
Come  here,  and  kiss  the  infant,  dears  — 

[And  give  it  perhaps  the  measles.] 

Your  charming  boys,  I  see,  are  hpme 

From  Reverend  Mr.  Russell's; 
'Twas  very  kind  to  bring  them  both  — 

[What  boots  for  my  new  Brussels!] 

What!  little  Clara  left  at  home? 

Well  now  I  call  that  shabby: 
I  should  have  loved  to  kiss  her  so  — 

[A  flabby,  dabby  babby!] 

And  Mr.  S.  I  hope  he's  well; 

Ah!  though  he  lives  so  handy, 
He  never  now  drops  in  to  sup  — 

[The  better  for  our  brandy!] 

Come,  take  a  seat  —  I  long  to  hear 

About  Matilda's  marriage; 
You're  come  of  course  to  spend  the  day! 

[Thank  Heaven!  I  hear  the  carriage.] 

What!  must  you  go?  next  time,  I  hope, 

You'll  give  me  longer  measure; 
Nay  —  I  shall  see  you  down,  the  stairs  — 

[With  most  uncommon  pleasure!] 

Good-bye,  good-bye,  remember  all, 

Next  time,  you'll  take  your  dinners! 

[Now,  David,  mind  I'm  not  at  home 
In  future  to  the  Skinners!] 

Many  of  Hood's  shorter  effusions,  such  as,  rm  going 
to  Bombay,  were  prompted  by  the  passing  incidents  of 
the  day.  A  letter  under  a  pseudonym  had  appeared 
in  the  Times  newspaper,  in  which  the  writer,  a  lady 
and  a  mother,  complained  of  the  ever  increasing  diffi- 
culty of  marrying  young  ladies  at  the  present  day. 
She  had  herself  three  very  accomplished  daughters,  she 
added,  but  could  find  no  chance  of  disposing  of 
them  in  marriage,  and  was  thus  compelled  to  solicit 
good  advice.  Advice  soon  came ,  in  the  form  of 
a  reply  from  a  gentleman  who  had  just  returned 
from  India,  and  the  counsel  he  gave  to   her  and  to 


-     21     — 

all  mothers  similarly  circumstanced  was,  to  sliip  off  their 
daughters  to  that  country,  where  European  ladies  were 
at  a  premium. 

I'M  GOING  TO  BOMBAY. 

My  hair  is  browii,  my  eyes  are  blue, 

And  reckoned  rather  bright; 
I'm  shapely,  if  they  tell  me  true, 

And  just  the  proper  height; 
My  skin  has  been  admired  in  verse, 

And  called  as  fair  as  day  — 
If  I  am  fair,  so  much  the  worse, 

I'm  going  to  Bombay. 

At  school  I  passed  with  some  eclat; 

I  learn'd  my  French  in  France; 
De  Wint  gave  lessons  how  to  draw 

And  D'Egville  how  to  dance; 
Crevelli  taught  me  how  to  sing, 

And  Cramer  how  to  play  — 
It  really  is    the  strangest  thing, 

I'm  going  to  Bombay! 

By  Pa  and  Ma  I'm  daily  told 

To  marry  now's  my  time, 
For  thougli  I'm  very  far  from  old, 

I'm  rather  in  my  prime. 
They  say  while  we  have  any  sun 

We  ought  to  make  our  hay  — 
And  India  has  so  hot  a  one, 

T,m  going  to  Bombay! 

My  cousin  writes  from  Hydrapot 

My  only  chance  to  snatch, 
And  says  the  climate  is  so  hot, 

It's  sure  to  light  a  match.*) 
She's  married  to  a  son  of  Mars, 

With  very  handsome  pay, 
And  swears  I  ought  to  thank  my  stars 

I'm  going  to  Bombay! 

She  says  that  I  shall  much  delight 

To  taste  their  Indian  treats, 
But  what  she  likes  may  turn  me  quite, 

Their  strange  outlandish  meats. 


*)  Pun  on  m  a  t  ch,   in  German  Streichholzchen,  and  match, 
Heiratspartie. 


—     22     — 

If  I  can  eat  rupees')  who  knows? 

Or  dine,  the  Indian  way, 
On  doolies  and  on  bungalows  — 

I'm  going  to  Bombay! 

She  says  that  I  shall  much  enjoy  — 

I  don't  know  what  she  means  — 
To  take  the  air,  and  buy  some  toy 

In  my  own  palankeens. 
I  like  to  drive  my  pony  chair, 

Or  ride  our  dapple  grey,  — 
But  elephants  are  horses  there  — 

I'm  going  to  Bombay ! 

That  fine  new  teak-built  ship,  the  Fox, 

A  1*)  Commander  Bird, 
Now  lying  in  the  London  docks, 

Will  sail  on  May  the  third. 
Apply  for  passage  or  for  freight. 

To  Nichol,  Scott,  and  Gray; 
Pa  has  applied,  and  sealed  my  fate  — 

I'm  going  to  Bombay! 

3Iy  heart  is  full,  my  trunks  as  well, 

My  mind  and  caps  made  up; 
3[y  corsets,  shap'd  by  'Mrs.  Bell, 

Are  promised  ere  I  sup; 
With  boots  and  shoes,  Kivarta's  best, 

And  dresses  by  Duce, 
And  a  special  license  in  my  chest, 

I'm  going  to  Bombay! 

Hood's  Up  the  Rhine  is  brimful  of  broad  humour, 
and  reminds  us  strongly  of  Smollett's  Humphrey  Clinker, 
The  travellers  are  respectively ,  the  hypochondriac 
Uncle  Orchard ;  Mrs.  Wilmot,  his  recently  widowed  sister, 
who  wishes  to  be  thought  a  very  interesting  personage ; 
her  talkative  "woman",  Martha  Penny,  and  the  sprightly 
nephew,  Frank  Somerville.     Like  Smollett,   Hood  has 


*)  The  young  lady  is  mistaken  in  supposing  the  rupee  to 
be  a  sort  of  pea.  It  is  a  silver  coin  worth  about  2  s.  sterling. 
The  d 0 0 1  y  and  the  i)alankeen,  or  palanquin,  are  two 
forms  of  a  bamboo  carriage,  bonie  by  four  men  on  their  shoulders. 
The  bungalow,  properly  speaking,  is  a  small  one-story  house; 
but  it  sometimes  means  a  small  inn  or  refreshment  station  for  tra- 
vellers. 

*)  A  ship  is  classed  A  1  when  built  of  the  best  materials,  and 
not  more  than  five  years  old. 


^* 'III III  ■■jawi-  "" 

liere  adopted  the  epistolary  form,  and  the  letters  are  in 
prose,  but  almost  continually  interspersed  with  incidental 
verses.  As  the  reader  will  guess,  the  subject  is  the  tour 
of  an  eccentric  English  family  on  the  continent. 

We   shall   conclude  our  notice   of  Hood's  poetical 
works  with  a  specimen  of  his  punning  style: 

FAITHLESS  NELLY  GRAY. 

Ben  Battle  was  a  soldier  bold, 

And  used  to  war's  alarms; 
But  a  cannon-bail  took  off  liis  legs, 

So  he  laid  down  his  arms!') 

Now  as  they  bore  him  off  the  field, 

Said  he,  "Let  others  shoot. 
For  here  I  leave  my  second  leg*, 

And  the  forty-second  foot."*) 

Now  Ben  he  loved  a  pretty  maid. 

Her  name  was  Nelly  Gray; 
So  he  went  to  pay  her  his  devours  [devoirs] 

When  he'd  devoured  his  pay; 

But  when  he  called  on  Nelly  Gray, 

She  made  him  quite  a  scoff ; 
And  when  she  saw  his  wooden  legs. 

Began  to  take  them  off!*) 

0  Nelly  Gray!  0  Nelly  Gray! 

Is  this  your  love  so  warm? 
The  love  that  loves  a  scarlet  coat, 

Should  be  more  uniform!*) 

She  said,  "I  loved  a  soldier  once. 

For  he  was  blithe  and  brave; 
But  I  will  never  have  a  man, 

With  both  legs  in  the  grave! 

Before  you  had  those  timber  toes. 

Your  love  I  did  allow, 
But  then,  you  know,  you  stand  upon 

Another  footinof  now!" 


*)  Arms;  in  German,  Arme,  or  Waffen. 
*)  Foot  or  infantry  regiment. 

^)  To  take  off;  in  German,  abnehmen,  or  sich  iiber  etwas 
lustig  machen. 

•)  U  n  i  f  0  r  m ;  in  German  consequent,  or  Regimentsuniform. 


—     24     — 

"0  NeUy  Gray!  0  Nelly  Gray! 

For  all  your  jeering  speeches, 
At  duty's  call  I  left  my  legs 

In  Badajos's  breaches. 

0  false  and  fickle  Nelly  Gray, 

I  know  why  you  refuse ! 
Though  I've  no  feet,  some  other  man 
Is  standing  in  my  shoes !  ^) 

1  msh  I  ne'er  liad  seen  your  face! 

But  now  a  long  farewell! 
For  you  will  he  my  death;  —  alas! 

You  will  not  be  my  Nell!"  (knell) ^) 

So  round  his  melancholy  neck 

A  rope  he  did  entwine, 
And,  for  his  second  time  in  life, 

Enlisted  in  the  Line. 

One  end  he  tied  around  a  beam. 
And  then  removed  his  pegs, 

And,  as  his  legs  were  off,  of  course 
He  soon  was  oif  his  legs. 

And  there  he  hung  till  he  was  dead 

As  any  naU')  in  town; 
For  though  distress  had  cut  him  up. 

It  could  not  cut  him  down! 

A  dozen  men  sat  on  his  coi*i)se. 

To  find  out  why  he  died  — 
And  they  buried  Ben  in  four  cross-roads,*) 

With  a  stake  in  his  inside! 


R.  H.  Barham. 


The  Rev.  Richard  Harris  Barham  (1788  — 
1845),  poet  and  humorist,  furnishes  us  with  a  striking 
example  of  cheerfulness  and  the  love  of  innocent  mirth 
co-existing  with  the  exercise  of  one  of  the  gravest  pro- 


')  T 0  stand  in  one's  shoes  is,  to  take  one's  place 
(Jemand  aus.stechen). 

')  Todtenglocke. 

')  Alluding  to  the  popular  simile:  "as  dead  as  a  nail  in  a 
door ." 

*)  This  was  fonnerly  the  usual  punislinieut  of  suicides.  There 
h  a  pun  in  the  last  line  on  a  stake  of  wood  and  abeafsteak. 


—    25     — 

fessions.  Mr.  Barliam  was  a  royal  chaplain  and  a 
minor  canon  of  St.  Paul's,  and  no  man  was  more  assi- 
duous or  earnest  in  the  discharge  of  his  clerical  duties, 
but  this  nowise  detracted  from  the  pleasure  he  took 
in  the  society*  of  Theodore  Hook,  the  elder  Charles 
Matthews,  and  the  other  wits  and  literary  celebrities 
of  the  day.  Nor  is  this  an  isolated  example.  Dr.  South, 
Sterne,  Swift,  Churchill,  Sydney  Smith,  Whately,  were 
all,  like  Barham,  men  distinguished  for  wit  and  humour, 
and  all  were  clergymen  of  the  Church  of  England. 
Mr.  Barham  has  left  us  a  novel,  entitled  My  Cousin  Ni- 
cholas; but  his  reputation  is  based  on  his  inimitable 
Ingoldshy  Legends,  which  he  contributed  to  Bentleys 
Miscellomy,  under  the  signature  of  Thomas  Ingoldshy. 
These  legends,  a  number  of  which  are  in  prose,  are 
in  part  humorous  versions  of  old  stories,  and  in  part 
the  invention  of  the  author.  One  of  the  most  amusing, 
founded  on  a  legend  existing  among  the  Cistercian 
monks,  is  called 

THE  JACKDAAV  OF  EHEIMS.*) 

The  Jackdaw  sat  on  the  Cardmal's  chair! 
Bishop  and  abhot  and  prior  were  there! 

Many  a  monk  and  many  a  friar, 

Many  a  knight  and  many  a  squire 
With  a  great  many  more  of  lesser  degree, 
In  sooth  a  goodly  company; 
And  they  served  the  Lord  Primate  on  bended  knee. 

Never,  I  ween, 

Was  a  prouder  seen, 
Read  of  in  books,  or  dreamt  of  in  dreams, 
Than  the  Cardinal  Lord  Archbishop  of  Rheims! 

In  and  out 

Through  the  motley  rout, 
That  little  Jackdaw  kept  liopping  about; 
Here  and  there, 
Like  a  dog  at  a  fair. 


*)  Tunc  miser  Corvus  adeo  conscientiae  stimulis  compimctus 
fuit,  et  execratio  eum  tantopere  excarneficavit,  ut  exinde  tabes- 
cere  inciperet.  nee  amplius  crocitaret Tunc  abbas  sacerdotibus 

mandavit  ut  rursus  furem  absolverent;  quo  facto,  Corvus,  omnibus 
mirantibus,  propediem  convaluit,  et  pristinam  sanitatem  recuperavit. 
—  De  Illust.  Ord.  Cisterc. 


26 


Over  comfits  and  cates, 

And  dishes  and  plates, 
Cowl  and  cope,  and  rochet  and  pall, 
3Iitre  and  crosier!  he  hopp'd  upon  all! 

With  saucy  air, 

He  perch'd  on  the  chair 
Where,  in  state  the  ^reat  Lord  Cardinal  sat, 
In  the  great  Lord  Cardinal's  great  red  hat; 

And  he  peered  in  the  face 

Of  his  Lordship's  grace, 
With  a  satisfied  look,  as  if  he  would  say, 
•"We  two  are  the  greatest  folks  here  to-day!" 

And  the  priests  with  awe, 

As  such  freaks  they  saw. 
Said,  "the  Devil  must  be  in  that  little  Jackdaw!" 

The  feast  Avas  over,  the  board  was  clear'd, 
The  flawns  and  the  custards  had  all  disappear'd, 
And  six  nice  little  singing-boys  —  dear  little  souls! 
Li  nice  clean  faces,  and  nice  white  stoles. 

Came,  in  order  due. 

Two  by  two, 
3Iarching  that  grand  refectory  through! 
A  nice  little  boy  held  a  golden  ewer, 
Kmboss'd  and  fill'd  with  water,  as  pure 
As  any  that  flows  between  Rheims  and  Namur, 
Which  a  nice  little  boy  stood  ready  to  catch 
In  a  fine  golden  hand-basin  made  to  match. 
Two  nice  little  boys,  rather  more  grown. 
Carried  lavender-water  and  eau-de-Cologne ; 
And  a  nice  little  boy  had  a  nice  cake  of  soap, 
AA^orthy  of  washing  the  hands  of  the  Pope. 

The  gTeat  Lord  Cardinal  turns  at  the  sight 
Of  these  nice  little  boys  dress'd  all  in  white: 

From  his  finger  he  draws 

His  costly  turquoise; 
And,  not  thinking  at  all  about  little  Jackdaws, 

Deposits  it  straight 

By  the  side  of  his  plate, 
While  the  nice  little  boys  on  his  Eminence  wait; 
Till,  when  nobody's  dreaming  of  any  such  thing, 
That  little  Jackdaw  hops  off  with  the  ring! 

There's  a  cry  and  a  shout, 

And  a  deuce  of  a  rout, 
And  nobody  seems  to  know  what  they're  about, 
But  the  monks  have  tlieir  pockets  all  turn'd  inside  out. 

The  friars  are  kneeling, 

And  hunting,  and  feeling 


-     27     — 

The  carpet,  the  floor,  and  the  walls,  and  the  ceiling. 

The  Cardinal  drew 

Off  each  pluni-colour'd  shoe, 
And  left  his  red  stockings  exposed  to  the  view; 

He  peeps,  and  he  feels 

In  the  toes  and  the  heels; 
They  turn  up  the  dishes  —  they  turn  up  the  plates  — 
They  take  up  the  poker  and  poke  out  the  grates. 

They  turn  up  the  rugs, 

The}'  examine  the  mugs : 

But,  no!  —  no  such  thing;  — 

They  can't  find  the  Ring! 

The  Cardinal  rose  with  a  dignified  look. 

He  call'd  for  his  candle,  his  bell,  and  his  book! 

In  holy  anger,  and  pious  grief. 

He  solemnly  cursed  that  rascally  thief! 

He  cursed  him  at  board,  he  cursed  him  in  bed; 

From  the  sole  of  his  foot  to  the  crown  of  his  head; 

He  cursed  him  in  sleeping,  that  every  night 

He  should  dream  of  the  devil,  and  wake  in  a  fright ; 

He  cursed  him  in  eating,  he  cursed  him  in  drinking, 

He  cursed  him  in  coughing,  in  sneezing,  in  winking ; 

He  cursed  him  in  sitting,  in  standing,  in  lying; 

He  cursed  him  in  walking,  in  riding,  in  flying; 
Never  was  heard  such  a  terrible  curse! 

But  what  gave  rise 

To  no  little  surprise, 
Nobody  seem'd  one  penny  the  worse! 

The  day  was  gone, 

The  night  came  on. 
The  monks  and  the  friars  they  search'd  till  dawn; 

When  the  Sacristan  saw. 

On  crumpled  claw, 
Come  limping  a  poor  little  lame  Jackdaw! 

No  longer  gay. 

As  on  yesterday; 
His  feathers  all  seemed  to  be  tum'd  the  wrong  way;  — 
His  pinions  droop'd  —  he  could  hardly  stand,  — 
His  head  was  as  bald  as  the  palm  of  your  hand ; 

His  eye  so  dim, 

So  wasted  each  limb. 
That,  heedless  of  grammar,  they  all  cried,  "That's  him! 
That's  the  scamp  that  has  done  this  scandalous  thing! 
That's  the  thief  that  has  got  my  Lord  Cardinal's  ring!" 

The  poor  little  Jackdaw, 

When  the  monks  he  saw. 
Feebly  gave  vent  to  the  ghost  of  a  caw; 
And  tum'd  his  bald  head,  as  much  as  to  say, 
"Pray,  be  so  good  as  to  walk  this  way!" 


—     28     — 

Slower  and  slower 

He  limp'd  on  before. 
Till  the}'  came  to  the  back  of  the  belfry  door. 

Where  the  first  thing  they  saw, 

Midst  the  sticks  and  the  straw, 
Was  the  ring  in  the  nest  of  that  little  Jackdaw! 

Then  the  gi'eat  Lord  Cardinal  call'd  for  his  book. 
And  off  that  terrible  curse  he  took; 

The  mute  expression 

Served  in  lieu  of  confession. 
And,  being  thus  coupled  with  full  restitution. 
The  Jackdaw  got  plenary  absolution! 

When  these  words  were  heard, 

That  poor  little  bird. 
Was  so  changed  in  a  moment,  'twas  really  absurd. 

He  grew  sleek  and  fat; 

In  addition  to  that, 
A  fresh  crop  of  feathers  came  thick  as  a  mat! 

His  tail  waggled  more 

Even  than  before; 
But  no  longer  it  wagg'd  with  an  impudent  air. 
No  longer  he  perch'd  on  the  Cardinal's  chair. 

He  hopp'd  now  about 

With  a  gait  devout; 
At  Matins,  at  Vespers,  he  never  was  out; 
And,  so  far  from  any  more  pilfering  deeds. 
He  ahvays  seem'd  telling  the  Confessor's  beads. 
If  any  one  lied  —  or  if  any  one  swore  — 
Or  slumber'd  in  prayer-time  and  happen'd  to  snore. 

That  good  Jackdaw 

Would  give  a  great  "Caw!" 
As  much  as  to  say,  Don't  do  so  any  more! 
While  many  remark'd,  as  his  manners  they  saw, 
That  they  never  had  known  such  a  pious  Jackdaw! 

He  long  lived,  the  pride 

Of  that  country  side. 
And  at  last  in  the  odour  of  sanctity  died. 

Mr.  Barham  possessed  such  a  fund  of  drollery,  that 
even  his  ordinar}^  correspondence  overflowed  Avith  it.  On 
one  occasion  he  sent  his  friend.  Dr  AVilmot  of  Ashford, 
an  invitation  to  dinner  in  four  stanzas,  forming  an  exact 
counterpart  to  Dr  Percy's  ballad,  "0  Nancy,  wilt  thou 
go  with  me?"  Dr  Percy's  first  stanza  is: 

0  Nancy,  wilt  thou  go  witli  me, 

Nor  sigh  to  leave  the  flaunting  town? 

Can  silent  glens  have  charms  for  thee. 
The  lowly  cot  and  russet  gown? 


—     29     — 

No  longer  drest  in  silken  sheen. 

No  longer  decked  with  jewels  rare, 
Say,  can'st  thou  quit  eacli  courtly  scene, 

Where  thou  wert  fairest  of  the  fair? 


Barliam's  imitation  is : 

0  Doctor !  wilt  thou  dine  with  me, 

And  drive  on  Tuesday  morning  down? 
Can  ribs  of  beef  have  charms  for  thee  — 

The  fat,  the  lean,  the  luscious  brown? 
No  longer  dress'd  in  silken  sheen, 

Nor  deck'd  with  rings  and  brooches  rare, 
Say,  wilt  thou  come  in  velveteen. 

Or  corduroys  that  never  tear? 

Nothing  gave  this  genial  humorist  more  amusement 
than  to  read  aloud,  in  a  circle  of  friends,  some  serious 
verses  ending  with  an  attrappe,  which  left  his  auditors 
staring  at  the  reader  in  blank  amazement.  One  of  these 
pieces  he  calls 


THE  CONFESSION. 

There's  something  on  my  breast,  father. 

There's  something  on  my  breast! 
The  livelong  day  I  sigh,  father, 

And  at  night  I  cannot  rest. 
I  cannot  take  my  rest,  father, 

Though  I  would  fain  do  so; 
A  weary  weight  oppresseth  me  — 

This  weary  weight  of  woe ! 

'Tis  not  the  lack  of  gold,  father. 

Nor  want  of  wordly  gear; 
My  lands  are  broad  and  fair  to  see. 

My  friends  are  kind  and  dear. 
My  kin  are  leal  and  true,  father, 

They  mourn  to  see  my  grief; 
But  oh!  tis  not  a  kinsman's  hand 

Can  give  my  heart  relief! 

'Tis  not  that  Janet's  false,  father, 
'Tis  not  that  she's  unkind; 

Tho'  busy  flatterers  swarm  around, 
I  know  her  constant  mind. 


—     30    — 

'Tis  uot  her  coldness,  father, 

That  chills  my  labouring  breast. 

It's  that  confounded  cucumber 
I've  eat  and  can't  digest. 

A  memoir  of  the  Rev.  Richard  Harris  Barham  has 
been  written  by  his  son. 


H.  Coleridge. 

Samuel  T.  Coleridge's  three  children,  Hartley,  Der- 
toent  and  Sara  Coleridge,  all  distinguished  themselves  as 
writers.  Hartley,  the  eldest  (1796  — 1849),  was  not 
only  a  poet,  but  an  essayist,  a  critic  and  a  biographer. 
His  poetry,  as  might  be  expected,  is  of  the  school  of 
Wordsworth,  or  to  use  the  popular  designation,  the  "Lake 
School."  It  is  very  sad  that  all  the  efforts  of  this  ta- 
lented man  to  gain  a  position  in  society  were  frustrated 
by  his  fatal  propensity  to  intemperance.  He  gained  a 
fellowship  at  Oxford,  but  soon  lost  it  in  consequence 
of  his  irregularities,  and  his  career  as  a  schoolmaster 
at  Ambleside  was  equally  brief.  Of  Hartley  Coleridge's 
gi^aceful  poetry  the  following  lines  will  give  a  good  idea : 

ADDRESS  TO  CERTAIN  GOLD-FISHES. 

Kestless  forms  of  hving  Ught, 
Quivering  on  your  lucid  wings, 
Cheating  still  the  curious  sight 
With  a  thousand  shadowings; 
Various  as  the  tints  of  even, 
Gorgeous  as  the  hues  of  heaven, 
Reflected  on  j'our  native  streams 
In  flitting,  flashing,  billowy  gleams! 
Hannless  warriors,  clad  in  mail 
Of  silver  breastplate,  golden  scale; 
Mail  of  Nature's  own  bestowing. 
With  peaceful  radiance  mildly  glowing  — 
Fleet  are  ye  as  fleetest  galley 
Or  pirate  rover  sent  from  Sallee; 
Keener  than  the  Tartar's  arrow, 
Sport  ye  in  your  sea  so  narrow. 

Was  the  sun  himself  your  sire? 
Were  ye  born  of  vital  fire? 


—     31     — 

Or  of  the  shade  of  golden  flowers. 
Such  as  we  fetch  from  eastern  bcnvers, 
To  mock  this  murky  clime  of  ours? 
lIpAvards.  downwards  now  ye  glance, 
Weaving  many  a  mazy  dance, 
Seeming  still  to  grow  in  size 
When  ye  would  elude  our  eyes  — 
Pretty  creatures!   we  might  deem 
Ye  were  happy  as  ye  seem  — 
As  gay,  as  gamesome,  and  as  blithe, 
As  light,  as  loving,  and  as  lithe. 
As  gladly  earnest  in  your  play, 
As  when  ye  gleamed  in  far  Cathay. 

And,  yet,  since  on  this  hapless  earth 

There's  small  sincerity  in  mirth. 

And  laugliter  oft  is  but  an  art 

To  drown  tlie  outcry  of  the  heart; 

It  may  be  that  your  ceaseless  gambols. 

Your  wheelings,  dartings,  divings,  rambles. 

Your  restless  roving  round  and  round 

The  circuit  of  your  crystal  bound  — 

Is  but  the  task  of  weary  pain. 

An  endless  labour,  dull  and  vain; 

And  while  your  forms  are  gaily  shining. 

Your  little  lives  are  inly  pining! 

Nay  —  but  still  I  fain  would  dream 

That  ye  are  happ}'  as  ye  seem. 

Derwent  Coleridge  entered  the  church,  and  for 
some  time  instructed  a  small  number  of  hojs,  among 
whom  was  young  Charles  Kingsley,  the  future  poet  and 
novelist.  Besides  writing  a  memoir  of  his  brother  Hartley, 
and  a  series  of  sermons,  he  annotated  some  of  his  father's 
works.  His  sister  Sara  published  a  fairy  tale  called 
Phaniasmion,  and  some  other  instructive  works  for  the 
young.  She  married  her  cousin,  Henry  Nelson  Coleridge, 
a  Chancery  barrister,  and  died  in  1852. 


William  Wordsworth. 

William  Wordsworth  (1770 — 1850)  was  born  at 
Cockermouth  in  Cumberland.  In  1798  he  published  the 
Lyrical  Balla<h  in  conjunction  with  Coleridge:  in  1814 
he  produced  his  principal  poem,  the  Excursion;  and  in 


—     32     — 

the  next  year  the  White  Doe  of  Rylstone,  wiiicli  was 
soon  followed  by  Peter  Bell,  and  other  poems.  All  these, 
however,  were  coldly  received,  and  it  was  only  between 
1830  and  1840  that  his  poetry  began  to  be  generally 
relished.  On  the  death  of  Southey  in  1843,  he  was  made 
Poet-Lanreate,  and  from  that  time  he  rose  so  rapidly 
and  so  liigh  in  public  estimation,  that  he  gave  a  tone 
to  all  the  serious  poetry  that  appeared  till  Swinburne 
published  his  Atalanta.  The  aim  and  plan  of  the  present 
volume  forbid  us  to  enter  into  a  disquisition  on  the 
merits  and  demerits  of  Wordsworth,  which  have  been 
amply  canvassed  in  many  other  works;  hence  we  shall 
merely  quote  a  few  of  what  we  consider  his  happiest 
or  his  most  characteristic  verses: 


THE  RAINBOW. 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 
A  rainbow  in  the  sky : 

So  was  it  when  my  life  began; 

So  is  it  now  I  am  a  man; 

So  be  it  when  I  shall  grow  old, 
Or  let  me  die! 

The  child  is  father  of  the  man; 

And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 

Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 


EARLY  MORNING  IN  LONDON. 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair: 
Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass  by 
A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty: 
This  city  now  doth  like  a  garment  wear 
The  beauty  of  the  morning;  silent,  bare, 
Ships,  towers,  domes,   theatres,  and  temples  lie 
Open  unto  the  fields  and  to  the  sky. 

All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless  air, 
Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep, 
In  his  first  splendour,  valley,  rock,  or  lull; 
Ne'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep! 
The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will: 
Dear  God!  The  very  houses  seem  asleep; 
And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still! 


38 


PRISON  THOUGHTS  OF  MARY  STUART. 

As  the  cold  aspect  of  a  sunless  way 

Strikes  tliroiigh  the  traveller's  frame  with  deadlier  chill, 

Oft  as  appears  a  grove,  or  obvious  hill, 

Glistening-  with  unparticipated  ray, 

Or  shining  slope  where  he  must  never  stray; 

So  joys,  remembered  without  wish  or  will. 

Sharpen  the  keenest  edge  of  present  ill,  — 

On  the  ci-ushed  heart  a  heavier  burthen  lay. 

Just  Heaven,  contract  the  compass  of  my  mind 

To  fit  proportion  with  my  altered  state! 

Quench  those  felicities  whose  light  I  find 

Keflected  in  my  bosom  all  too  late!  — 

Oh,  be  my  spirit,  like  my  thraldom,  strait ; 

And,  like  mine  eyes  that  stream  with  soitow,  blind! 

MILTON. 

Milton!  thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour. 

England  hath  need  of  thee ;  she  is  a  fen 

Of  stagnant  waters ;  altar,  sword,  and  pen. 

Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower 

Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower 

Of  inward  happiness.  We  are  selfish  men ; 

Oh,  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again; 

And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power. 

Thy  soul  was  like  a  star,  and  dwelt  apart; 

Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like  the  sea; 

Pure  as  the  naked  heavens  —  majestic,  free. 

So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common  way 

In  cheerful  godliness;  and  yet  thy  heart 

The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  did  lay. 

EARLY  SPRING. 

I  heard  a  thousand  blended  notes. 
While  in  a  grove  I  sate  reclined. 

In  that  sweet  mood  when  pleasant  thoughts 
Bring  sad  thoughts  to  the  mind. 

To  her  fair  works  did  Nature  link 

The  human  soul  that  through  me  ran; 

And  much  it  grieved  my  heart  to  think 
What  man  has  made  of  man. 

Through  primrose  tufts,  in  that  gTeen  bower, 
The  periwinkle  trailed  its  wreaths. 

And  'tis  my  faith  that  every  flower 
Enjoys  the  air  it  breathes. 

3 


34 


The  birds  around  me  hopped  and  played, 
Their  thoughts  I  cannot  measure: 

But  the  least  motion  which  they  made. 
It  seemed  a  thrill  of  pleasure. 

The  budding  twigs  spread  out  their  fan, 
To  catch  the  breezy  air; 

And  I  must  think,  do  all  I  can, 

That  there  was  pleasure  there. 

If  this  belief  from  heaven  be  sent. 
If  such  be  Nature's  holy  plan, 

Have  I  not  reason  to  lament 

What  man  has  made  of  man  ? 


James  Montgomery. 

The  highly  esteemed  poet,  James  Montgomery,  the 
author  of  the  World  before  the  Flood,  Greenlarhd,  and 
Pelican  Island,  was  born  at  Irvine,  in  Ayrshire,  in  the 
year  1771,  and  he  survived  till  1854.  He  was  the  son 
of  a  clergyman  and  missionary,  and  all  he  has  written 
is  pervaded  by  a  deep  but  happy  and  hopeful  religious 
conviction.  We  subjoin  his  beautiful  description  of  the 
Nautilus  in  Pelican  Island: 

Light  as  a  flake  of  foam  upon  the  wind. 
Keel-upward  from  the  deep  emerged  a  shell. 
Shaped  like  the  moon  ere  half  her  horn  is  filled; 
Fraught  with  young  life,  it  righted  as  it  rose. 
And  moved  at  will  along  the  yielding  water. 
The  native  pilot  of  this  little  bark 
Put  out  a  tier  of  oars  on  either  side. 
Spread  to  the  wafting  breeze  a  twofold  sail, 
And  mounted  up  and  glided  down  the  billow. 

In  happy  freedom,  pleased  to  feel  the  air, 
And  wander  in  the  luxury  of  light, 
Worth  all  the  dead  creation,  in  that  hour, 
To  me  appeared  this  lonely  Nautilus, 
My  fellow-being,  like  myself  alive. 
Entranced  in  contemplation,  vague  yet  sweet, 
I  watched  its  vagrant  course  and  rippling  wake. 
Till  I  forgot  the  sun  amidst  the  heavens. 

His  picture  of  the  eternal  ice-fields  and  the  stupen- 
dous icebergs  in  the  Arctic  regions,  in  his  fine  poem 
of  Greenland,  is  equally  correct  and  still  more  majestic : 


—     35     — 

Piled  on  a  hundred  arches,  ridge  by  ridge, 

O'er  fixed  and  fluids  strides  the  alpine  bridge, 

Whose  blocks  of  sapphire  seem  to  mortal  eye 

Hewn  from  cerulean  quarries  in  the  sky; 

With  glacier  battlements  that  crowd  the  spheres, 

The  slow  creation  of  six  thousand  years. 

Amidst  immensity  it  towers  sublime, 

Winter's  eternal  palace,  built  by  Time: 

All  human  structures  by  his  touch  are  borne 

Down  to  the  dust;  mountains  themselves  are  worn 

With  his  light  footsteps;  here  for  ever  grows. 

Amid  the  region  of  unmelting  snows, 

A  monimient;  where  every  flake  that  falls 

Gives  adamantine  firmness  to  the  walls. 

The  sun  beholds  no  mirror  in  his  race 

That  shows  a  brighter  image  of  his  face; 

The  stars,  in  their  nocturnal  vigils,  rest 

Like  signal-fires  on  its  illumined  crest ; 

The  gliding  moon  around  the  ramparts  wheels, 

And  all  its  magic  lights  and  shades  reveals. 

Montgomery's    verses    on  Night   have    been  often 
quoted,  and  are  justly  admired: 

NIGHT. 

Night  is  the  time  for  rest; 

How  sweet,  when  labours  close, 
To  gather  round  an  aching  breast 

The  curtain  of  repose, 
Stretch  the  tired  limbs,  and  lay  the  head 
Upon  our  own  delightful  bed! 

Night  is  the  time  for  dreams; 

The  gay  romance  of  life, 
When  truth  that  is  and  truth  that  seems 

Blend  in  fantastic  strife; 
Ah!  visions  less  beguiling  far 
Than  waking  dreams  by  daylight  are! 

Night  is  the  time  for  toil; 

To  plough  the  classic  field, 
Intent  to  find  the  buiied  spoil 

Its  wealthy  furrows  yield; 
Till  all  is  ours  that  sages  taught. 
That  poets  sang  or  heroes  wrought. 

Night  is  the  time  to  weep; 

To  wet  with  unseen  tears 
Those  graves  of  memory  where  sleep 

The  joys  of  other  years ; 

3* 


36 


Hopes  that  were  angels  in  theii*  birth, 
But  perished  young  like  things  on  earth. 

Night  is  the  time  to  watch, 

On  Ocean's  dark  expanse 
To  hail  the  Pleiades,  or  catch 

The  full  moon's  earliest  glance, 
That  brings  imto  the  home-sick  mind 
All  we  have  loved  and  left  behind. 

Night  is  the  time  for  death; 

When  all  around  is  peace. 
Calmly  to  yield  the  weary  breath. 

From  sin  and  suffering  cease: 
Think  of  heaven's  bliss,  and  give  the  sign 
To  parting  friends  —  such  death  be  mine ! 


Professor  Wilson. 

John  Wilson  (1785 — 1854)  was  born  at  Paisley,  in 
Scotland,  and  studied  at  Glasgow  and  Magdalene  Col- 
lege, Oxford.  He  afterwards  purchased  some  property 
on  the  beautiful  banks  of  Lake  AVindermere,  in  Lanca- 
shire, where  he  resided  for  four  years,  but  having  ex- 
perienced a  reverse  of  fortune,  he  became  a  candidate 
for,  and  obtained  the  chair  of  moral  philosophy  in 
Edinburgh  University.  Wilson's  principal  poetical  works 
are  the  Isle  of  Palms,  and  a  dramatic  poem,  the  City 
of  the  Plague.  His  poetry  is  characterized  in  general  by 
softness  and  sweetness,  and  the  Isle  of  Palms  has  been 
adduced  as  one  of  the  best  specimens  of  the  "beautiful 
sublime",  but  he  occasionally  shows  great  force  and 
vigour,  as  in  his  fine  picture  of  the  shipwreck  in  the 
same  poem.  Perhaps  nothing  he  wrote  has  been  so 
much  read  as  his  lines,  A  sleeping  Child,  suggested,  it 
is  said,  by  one  of  the  sculptor  Chantrey's  two  sleeping 
children  in  Lichfield  Cathedral.  It  suited  the  poet's 
purpose  better,  however,  to  transform  the  child  ot 
marble  into  one  of  flesh  and  blood,  so  as  to  enable 
him  to  paint  successively  the  tranquil  slumber  and  the 
joyous  waking  of  infancy. 


—     37     — 


A  SLEEPING  CHILD. 

Art  thou  a  thing  of  mortal  birth, 
Whose  happy  home  is  on  our  earth? 
Does  human  blood  with  life  imbue 
Those  wandering  veins  of  lieavenly  blue 
That  stray  along  thy  forehead  fair, 
Lost  'mid  a  gleam  of  golden  hair? 
Oh,  can  that  light  and  airy  breath 
Steal  from  a  being  doomed  to  death; 
Those  features  to  the  grave  be  sent 
In  sleep  thus  mutely  eloquent? 
Or  art  thou,  what  thy  form  would  seem, 
The  phantom  of  a  blessed  dream? 

Oh!  that  my  spirit's  eye  could  see 
Whence  burst  those  gleams  of  ecstasy! 
That  light  of  dreaming  soul  appears 
To  play  from  thoughts  above  thy  years. 
Thou  smil'st  as  if  thy  soul  were  soaring 
To  heaven,  and  heaven's  God  adoring! 
And  who  can  tell  what  visions  high 
May  bless  an  infant's  sleeping  eye! 
What  brighter  throne  can  brightness  find 
To  reign  on  than  an  infant's  mind. 
Ere  sin  destroy  or  error  dim 
The  glory  of  the  seraphim? 

Oh!  vision  fair!  that  I  could  be 
Again  as  young,  as  pure  as  thee! 
Vain  wish !  the  rainbow's  radiant  form 
May  view,  but  cannot  brave  the  storm: 
Years  can  bedim  the  gorgeous  dyes 
That  paint  the  bird  of  Paradise. 
And  years,  so  fate  hath  ordered,  roll 
Clouds  o'er  the  simimer  of  the  soul. 
Fair  was  that  face  as  break  of  daAvn, 
When  o'er  its  beauty  sleep  was  drawn 
Like  a  thin  veil  that  half  concealed 
The  light  of  soul,  and  half  revealed. 

Wliile  thy  hushed  heart  with  visions  wrought, 
Each  trembling  eyelash  moved  with  thought, 
And  things  we  dream,  but  ne'er  can  speak 
Like  clouds  came  floating  o'er  thy  cheek, 
Such  summer-clouds  as  travel  light, 
When  the  soul's  heaven  lies  calm  and  bright; 
Till  thou  awok'st  —  then  to  thine  eye 
Thy  whole  heart  leapt  in  ecstasy ! 


38 


And  lovely  is  that  heart  of  thine, 
Or  sure  these  eyes  could  never  shine 
With  such  a  wild,  yet  bashful  glee, 
Gay,  half-o'ercome  timidity! 


Mrs.  Southey. 

Mrs,  Southey  (1787—1854),  when  still  Miss  Caroline 
Bowles,  made  herself  favourably  known  to  the  public 
by  the  publication  of  the  Widow*s  Tale  and  other 
poems.  In  1839  she  became  the  second  wife  of  the 
then  poet  laureate,  Robert  Southey,  though  quite  aware 
that  his  reason  had  already  begun  to  totter,  and  devoted 
herself  to  her  husband,  in  his  terrible  and  incurable 
malady,  with  exemplary  fortitude  and  patience,  up  to 
the  time  of  his  death  in  1843.  Miss  Bowles  and  Southey, 
many  years  before  their  marriage,  had  projected  a  poem 
on  the  subject  of  Robin  Hood,  but  the  idea  was  only 
partially  carried  out,  and  after  South ey's  death,  the  work 
was  given  to  the  world  as  a  fragment  by  the  widow. 
Of  Mrs.  Southey's  numerous  minor  poems  we  present 
to  our  readers,  as  one  of  the  most  characteristic,  the 
lines  entitled.  Once  upon  a  Time. 

I  mind  me  of  a  pleasant  time, 

A  season  long  ago; 
The  pleasantest  I've  ever  kno"WTi, 

Or  ever  now  shall  know. 
Bees,  birds,  and  little  tinkling  rills. 

So  merrily  did  chime; 
The  year  was  in  its  sweet  spring-tide, 

And  I  was  in  my  prime. 

I've  never  heard  such  music  since, 

From  every  bending  spray ; 
I've  never  plucked  such  primroses. 

Set  thick  on  bank  and  brae. 
I've  never  smelt  such  violets 

As  all  that  pleasant  time 
I  found  by  every  hawthorn-root  — 

When  I  was  in  my  prime. 

Yon  moory  down,  so  black  and  bare, 

Was  gorgeous  then  and  gay 
With  golden  gorse  —  bright  blossoming  — 

As  none  blooms  now-a-day. 


—     39     — 

Tlie  blackbird  siiigs  but  seldom  now 

Up  there  in  the  old  lime, 
Where  hours  and  hours  he  used  to  sing 

When  I  was  in  my  prime. 

And  blackberries  —  so  mawkish  now  — 

Were  finely  flavoured  then; 
And  nuts  —  such  reddening  clusters  ripe 

I  ne'er  shall  pull  again. 
Nor  strawberries  blushing  bright  as  rich 

As  fruits  of  sunniest  clime; 
How  all  is  altered  for  the  worse 

Since  I  was  in  my  prime! 


Thomas  Noon  Talfourd  (1795—1854). 

The  distinguished  dramatist,  Mr.  Talfourd ,  sergeant - 
at-law,  was  a  native  of  Reading,  in  Berkshire.  Of  his 
numerous  poetical  effusions,  nothing  pleases  us  so  much 
as  his  verses  on  the  death  of  one  of  his  children, 
named  after  his  friend,  the  poet  and  essayist  Charles 
Lamb,  who  died  at  Brighton  a  year  after  his  gifted 
and  genial  godfather. 

THE  POET  AND  THE  CHILD. 

Our  gentle  Charles*)  has  passed  away, 

From  earth's  short  bondage  free, 
And  left  to  us  its  leaden  day 

And  mist-enshrouded  sea. 

Here  by  the  ocean's  terraced  side, 

Sweet  hours  of  hope  were  known, 
When  first  the  triumph  of  its  tide 

Seem'd  presage  of  our  own. 

That  eager  joy  the  sea-breeze  gave, 

When  first  it  raised  his  hair, 
Sunk  with  each  day's  retiring  wave, 

Beyond  the  reach  of  prayer. 

The  sun-blink  that  through  drizzling  mist, 

To  flickering  hope  akin, 
Lone  waves  with  feeble  fondness  kiss'd. 

No  smile  as  faint  can  win; 


')  The  first  seven  stanzas  refer  exclusively  to  the  child. 


—     40     — 

Yet  not  in  vain  with  radiance  weak 
The  heavenly  stranger  gleams  — 

Not  of  the  world  it  lights  to  speak, 
But  that  from  whence  it  streams. 

That  world  our  patient  sufferer  sought, 

Serene  with  pitying  eyes, 
As  if  Jiis  mounting  spirit  caught 

The  wisdom  of  the  skies. 

With  boundless  love  it  look'd  abroad 
For  one  bright  moment  given. 

Shone  with  a  loveliness  that  awed, 
And  quiver'd  into  Heaven. 

A  year  made  slow  by  care  and  toil 

Has  paced  its  weary  round, 
Since  death  enrich'd  with  kindred  spoil 

The  snow-clad,  frost-ribb'd  ground. 

Then  Lamb,  with  whose  enduring  name 

Our  boy  we  proudly  graced, 
Shrank  from  the  Avarmth  of  sweeter  fame 

Than  ever  bard  embraced. 

Still  'twas  a  mournful  joy  to  think 

Our  darling  might  supply 
For  years  to  us  a  living  link 

With  name  that  cannot  die. 

And  though  such  fancy  gleam  no  more 

On  earthly  sorrow's  night, 
Truth's  nobler  torch  unveils  the  shore 

Which  lends  to  both  its  light. 

The  nurseling  there  that  hand  may  take 

None  ever  grasp' d  in  vain. 
And  smiles  of  well-known  sweetness  wake 

Without  their  tinge  of  pain. 

Though,  'twixt  the  cliild  and  childlike  bard 
Late  seem'd  distinction  wide, 

They  now  may  trace,  in  Heaven's  regard, 
How  near  they  were  allied. 

Within  the  infant's  ample  broAv 

Blythe  fancies  lay  unfurl' d, 
Which  all  uncrush'd  may  open  now 

To  charm  a  sinless  world. 


—     41     — 

Though  the  soft  spirit  of  those  eyes 

Might  ne'er  with  Lamb's  compete  — 

Ne'er  sparkle  with  a  wit  so  wise, 
Or  melt  in  tears  as  sweet  — 

The  nurseling's  unforgotten  look 

A  kindred  love  reveals 
With  his  who  never  friend  forsook, 

Or  hurt  a  thing  that  feels. 

In  thought  profound,  in  wildest  glee, 
In  sorrow's  lengthening  range, 

His  guileless  soul  of  infancy 
Endured  no  spot  or  change. 

From  traits  of  each  our  love  receives 

For  comfort  nohler  scope; 
While  light  which  childlike  genius  leaves 

Confirms  the  infant's  hope: 

And  in  that  hope,  with  sweetness  fraught. 

Be  aching  hearts  heguiled 
To  blend  in  one  delighful  thought 

The  Poet  and  the  Child. 


Lord  Maeaulay. 
Had  Lord  Maeaulay  devoted  himself  more  to  the 
service  of  the  Muse,  it  is  doubtful  if  he  would  ever 
have  reached  that  proud  eminence  which  he  has  attained 
as  a  critic,  essayist,  and  historian,  but  we  may  safely 
assume,  that  he  would  have  held  no  mean  position 
among  the  poets  of  the  Age.  His  four  Lays  of  ancient 
Rome,  with  which  he  surprised  the  world  in  1842, 
prove  at  once  his  intimate  acquaintance  with  the  old 
Roman  writers  and  his  capacity  for  writing  poetry  of 
the  highest  order.  The  Songs  of  the  Huguenots  and  of 
the  Civil  War,  which  belong  to  his  earliest  poetical 
efforts,  are  full  of  energy  and  martial  fire,  and  it  seems 
almost  incredible  to  us,  that  they  were  the  productions 
of  inexperienced  youth.  In  reading  Naseby  Battle^  what- 
ever our  religious  opinions  or  political  leanings  may 
be,  we  are  carried  away  in  spite  of  ourselves  by  the 
stream  of  rushing  words,  that  seem  to  re-echo  the 
rolling  of  the  drums,  the  clang  of  the  trumpet,  and  the 
clash  of  encountering  swords. 


—     42     — 

NASEBY  BATTLE. 

(June  14,  1645.) 

Oh!  wlierefore  come  ye  forth,  in  triumph  from  the  North, 

With  your  hands  and  your  feet  and  your  raiment  all  red? 

And  wherefore  doth  your  rout  send  forth  a  joyous  shout? 

And  whence  be  the  grapes  of  the  wine-press  which  ye  tread? 

Oh!  evil  was  the  root,  and  bitter  was  the  fruit, 

And  crimson  was  the  juice  of  the  vintage  that  we  trod ; 

For  we  trampled  on  the  throng  of  the  haughty  and  the  strong, 
Who  sate  in  the  high  places  and  slew  the  saints  of  God. 

It  was  about  the  noon  of  a  glorious  day  in  June, 

That  we  saw  their  banners  dance,  and  their  cuii*asses  shine ; 

And  the  Man  of  Blood ')  was  there,  with  his  long  essenced  hair, 
And  Astley,  and  Sir  Marmaduke,  and  Rupert  of  tlie  Rhine. 

Like  a  servant  of  the  Lord,  with  his  Bible  and  his  sword. 
The  General*)  rode  along  us  to  form  us  for  the  fight, 

When  a  murmuring  sound  broke  out,  and  swell' d  into  a  shout, 
Among  the  godless  horsemen  upon  the  tyrant's  right. 

And  hark!  like  the  roar  of  the  billows  on  the  shore. 
The  cry  of  battle  rises  along  their  charging  line, 

"For  God !  for  the  Cause !  for  the  Church !  for  the  Laws ! 

For  Charles,  King  of  England,  and  Rupert  of  the  Rhine !" 

The  fui-ious  German  comes,  with  his  clarions  and  his  drums, 
His  bravoes  of  Alsatia  and  pages  of  Whitehall : 

They  are  bursting  on  our  flanks.  Grasp  your  pikes !  close  your  ranks ! 
For  Rupert  never  comes  but  to  conquer  or  to  fall. 

They  are  here  —  they  rush  on.  We  are  broken  —  we  are  gone  — 
Our  left  is  borne  before  them,  like  stubble  on  the  blast. 

0  Lord,  put  forth  thy  might!  0  Lord,  defend  the  right! 

Stand  back  to  back,  in  God's  name,  and  fight  it  to  the  last. 

Stout  Skippon  hath  a  wound :  —  the  centre  hath  given  ground :  — 
Hark !  hark !  what  means  the  trampling  of  horsemen  in  our  rear  ? 

Whose  banner  do  I  see,  boys?  'Tis  he,  thank  God,  'tis  he; 
Bear  up  another  minute.  Brave  Oliver')  is  here. 

Their  heads  all  stooping  low,  their  points  all  in  a  row, 

Like  a  whirlwind  on  the  trees,  like  a  deluge  on  the  dyke, 

Our  cuirassiers  have  burst  on  the  ranks  of  tlie  Accurst, 
And  at  a  shock  have  scattered  the  forest  of  his  pikes. 


»)  Charles  I. 
^)  Fairfax. 
')  Cromwell. 


—     43     — 

Fast,  fast  the  gallants  ride,  in  some  safe  nook  to  hide 

Their  coward  heads,  predestined  to  rot  on  Temple-Bar. 

And  he  —  he  turns,  he  flies  —  shame  on  those  cruel  eyes, 
That  bore  to  look  on  torture,  and  dared  not  look  on  war. 

Fools,  your  doublets  shone  with  gold,  and  your  hearts  were  gay  and  bold, 
When  you  kissed  your  lily  hands  to  your  lemans*)  to-day, 

And  to-morrow  shall  the  fox,  from  her  chambers  in  the  rocks, 
Lead  forth  her  tawny  cubs  to  howl  above  the  prey. 

And  she  of  the  seven  hills  shall  moan  her  children's  ills, 

And  tremble  when  she  thinks  on  the  edge  of  England's  sword, 

And  the  kings  of  earth  in  fear  shall  shudder  when  they  hear 

What  the  Hand  of  God  hath  wrought  for  the  Houses  and  the  Word ! 


As  a  worthy  pendant  to  tliis  fine  lyric,  we  give 
hry,  in  a  slightly  abbreviated  form: 

The  king')  is  come  to  marshal  us,  all  in  his  armour  drest; 

And  he  has  bound  a  snow-white  plume  upon  his  gallant  crest. 

He  looked  upon  his  people,  and  a  tear  was  in  his  eye; 

He  looked  upon  the  traitors,  and  his  glance  was  stern  and  high. 

Right  graciously  he  smiled  on  us,  as  rolled  from  wing  to  wing, 

Down  all  our  line,  a  deafening  shout,  "God  save  our  lord  the  King." 

"And  if  my  standard-bearer  fall,  as  fall  full  well  he  may  — 

For  never  saw  I  promise  yet  of  such  a  bloody  fray  — 

Press  where  ye  see  my  Avhite  plume  shine,  amidst  the  ranks  of  war, 

And  be  your  oriflamme  to  day  the  helmet  of  Navarre." 

Hurrah!  the  foes  are  moving!  Hark  to  the  mingled  din 

Of  fife,  and  steed,  and  trump,  and  drum,  and  roaring  culverin. 

The  fiery  Duke^)  is  pricking  fast  across  Saint  Andre's  plain, 

With  all  the  hireling  chivalry  of  Guelders  and  Almayne. 

Now  by  the  lips  of  those  ye  love,  fair  gentlemen  of  France, 

Charge  for  the  golden  lilies  —  upon  them  with  the  lance! 

A  thousand  spurs  are  striking  deep  —  a  thousand  spears  in  rest, 

A  thousand  knights  are  pressing  close  behind  the  snow-white  crest, 

And  in  they  burst,  and  on  they  rushed,  while,  like  a  guiding  star, 

Amidst  the  thickest  carnage  blazed  the  helmet  of  Navarre! 

Now  God  be  praised,  the  day  is  ours !  Mayenne  hath  turned  his  rein. 
D'Aumale  hath  cried  for  quarter.  The  Flemish  Count*)  is  slain. 
Their  ranks  are  breaking  like  thin  clouds  before  a  Biscay  gale; 
The  field  is  heaped  with  bleeding  steeds,  and  flags,  and  cloven  mail. 


*)  Corresponds  to  the  German  Liebchen. 

^)  Henry  IV. 

*)  Mayenne. 

*)  Count  Egmont. 


—     44     — 

And  then  we  thought  on  vengeance,  and  all  along  our  van 
"Kemember  St.  Bartholomew!"  was  passed  from  man  to  man; 
But  out  spake  gentle  Henry:    "No  Frenchman  is  my  foe: 
Down,  down  with  every  foreigner,  but  let  your  brethren  go." 
Oh!  was  there  ever  such  a  knight,  in  friendship  or  in  war, 
As  our  sovereign  lord,  King  Henry,  the  soldier  of  Navarre! 

Thomas  Babington  Macaulay,  though  belonging  by 
his  father's  side  to  an  old  Highland  family,  was  born  in 
the  year  1800  at  Eothley  Temple,  Leicestershire.  His 
father,  Zachary  Macaulay,  a  native  of  Scotland,  had 
settled  in  England,  and  married  the  daughter  of  a 
Bristol  bookseller,  Miss  Selina  Mills,  who  became  the 
mother  of  the  distinguished  writer.  Young  Macaulay 
studied  at  Cambridge,  wrote  for  the  Edinburgh  Review, 
was  called  to  the  bar,  and  in  1830  entered  parliament 
as  member  for  the  borough  of  Calne.  Having  obtained  the 
post  of  legal  adviser  to  the  Supreme  Court  of  Calcutta, 
he  resigned  his  seat  in  Parliament,  and  went  to  India. 
After  returning  to  England,  he  was  elected  member 
for  Edinburgh  in  1839,  and  again  in  1852.  In  1857 
he  was  raised  to  the  peerage  as  Baron  Macaulay  of 
Eothley  Temple.    He  died  in  1859, 


A.   Smith. 


Mr.  Albert  Smith  (1816—1860),  the  popular  lecturer, 
besides  many  humorous  sketches  in  prose,  wrote  a  good 
deal  of  comic  poetry.  Perhaps  his  most  amusing  plea- 
santry in  rhyme  is  his  account  of  the  alarm  and  flight 
of  those  merry  sprites,  the  fairies,  at  the  advent  of 
Science. 

SCIENCE  AND  THE  FAIRIES. 

When  Father  Time  was  in  his  prime, 

Some  thousand  years  ago. 
Ere  his  beard  was  long,  or  his  pinions  strong, 

Or  his  locks  as  white  as  snow. 

In  our  merry  land  there  dwelt  a  band 

Of  tiny  joyous  elves. 
Who  owned  no  order  or  command 

From  any  but  themselves. 


—    45    — 

And  each  one  lived  in  a  cottage  orne 

Of  these  elfen  gamesome  things, 
By  the  tiger-moth  tliatched  with  his  plume  so  gay, 

And  glazed  with  a  dragon-fly's  wings. 

They  danced  all  night  in  the  moonheams  bright, 

And  quaffed  their  cowslip  wine; 
Then  hid  their  heads  in  their  moth-down  beds 

Ere  day  began  to  shine. 

And  they  revelled  long,  with  their  dance  and  song. 

Till  a  strange  gigantic  dame 
A  visit  paid  to  their  forest  glade. 

And  Science  was  her  name. 

Her  lungs  were  air-pumps  of  monstrous  size ; 

Her  breath  blew  forth  a  steam, 
And  with  oxyhydrogen  her  eyes') 

Like  meteor  sparks  did  gleam. 

With  triple  cranks  and  rackwork  neat,  ^) 

Her  limbs  and  joints  did  move; 
And  her  vital  powders  were  raised  to  heat 

With  a  Dr.  Arnott's  stove.^) 

The  fairies  gazed  on  this  fearful  sight, 

Then  swift  through  the  summer  air, 
In  a  dreadful  fright  they  all  took  flight 

To  the  realms  of  my  lord  knows  where.*) 

They  have  gone  for  aye,  for  since  that  day 

They  no  longer  in  England  dwell; 
Lone  is  the  glade,  and  the  leafy  shade, 

And  forsaken  each  quiet  dell. 

And  Science  still  her  march  keeps  on; 

But  since  that  epoch  dread. 
Our  legends  old  to  their  graves  have  gone, 

And  Romance  herself  has  fled. 

In  a  poetical  epistle,  addressed  to  a  lady  in  Clia- 
mouni,  a  clerk  in  the  Foreign  Office,  in  Downing  Street, 

*)  A  reference  to  the  oxyhydrogen,  or  Drummond  light  (Si- 
derallicht). 

^)  Crank  and  rackwork,  in  German,  Kurbel  and  Zahn- 
stange  mit  Bad. 

^)  Dr.  Neill  Arnott,  physician-in-ordinary  to  Queen  Victoria, 
obtained  the  Rumford  Medal,  in  1854,  for  an  improved  stove. 

*)  The  Lord  knows  w  h  e  r  e ,  is  a  popular  expression,  equi- 
valent to   Wer  weiss  wohin? 


—     46     — 

complains  that  in  consequence  of  the  Crimean  AVar  he 
is  obliged  to  remain  in  London,  while  his  friends  are 
travelling  and  solely  occupied  with  sight-seeing: 

Confound  the  telegraphs  and  war, 

And  letters  sent  oif  wet! 
Confound  the  Russians  and  their  Czar! 

Confound  the  whole  "Gazette!" 
I  thought  at  last  upon  the  Alps 

That  you  and  1  should  meet; 
But  now  you  are  at  Chamouni, 

And  I'm  in  Downing  Street. 

I  made  my  plans,  I  fixed  the  day, 

I  got  some  thick-soled  shoes 
To  ''do  the  Alps;"  and  on  the  way 

I  meant  to  buy  a  blouse. 
I  lost  myself  in  visions  bright, 

Day-dreaming  of  the  treat 
To  be  with  you  at  Chamouni. 

Away  from  Downing  Street. 

I  thought  of  those  dark  pine-tree  woods, 

Those  fern-clad  granite  cells, 
Those  channels  of  the  glacier  floods. 

Those  sweet-toned  cattle  bells. 
That  milk,  these  girls,  those  fraisesdubois  — 

In  fact,  those  things  you  meet 
At  every  turn  in  Chamouni, 

But  not  in  Downing  Street. 

And,  Annie  dear,  I  thought  of  you  — 

A  poet  would  say  "thee"  — 
In  that  "unclouded  weather  blue" 

(That's  Tennyson,  not  me. 
Or  rather  "I"),  but  all  my  wits 

Have  beaten  a  retreat. 
Whilst  thinking  you're  at  Chamouni, 

And  I'm  in  Downing  Street. 

It  is  worthy  of  remark,  that  though  a  good-natured 
drollery  is  the  principal  feature  in  Mr.  Albert  Smith's 
verses,  in  prose  he  occasionally  rises  into  the  region 
of  true  poetry.  What  could  surpass  the  following 
description  of  evening  on  the  Grands  Mulets,  in  his 
Ascent  of  Mont  Blanc  f 

"The  sun  at  length  went  down  behind  the  Aiguille 
du  Goute,  and  then,  for  two  hours,  a  scene  of  such 


—     47     — 

wild  and  wondrous  beauty  —  of  such  inconceivable 
and  unearthly  splendour  —  burst  upon  nie,  that,  spell- 
bound and  almost  trembling  with  the  emotion  its  magni- 
ficence called  forth  —  with  every  sense,  and  feeling, 
and  thought  absorbed  by  its  brilliancy,  I  saw  far  more 
than  the  realization  of  the  most  gorgeous  visions  that 
opium  or  hasheesh  could  evoke,  accomplished.  At  first, 
every  thing  about  us  —  above,  around,  below  —  the 
sky,  the  mountain,  and  the  lower  peaks  —  appeared 
one  uniform  creation  of  burnislied  gold  so  brightly 
dazzling  that,  now  our  veils  were  removed,  the  eye 
could  scarcely  bear  the  splendour.  As  the  twilight 
gradually  crept  over  the  lower  world,  the  glow  became 
still  more  vivid;  and  presently,  as  the  blue  mists  rose 
in  the  valleys,  the  tops  of  the  higher  mountains  looked 
like  islands  rising  from  a  filmy  ocean  —  an  archipelago 
of  gold.  By  degrees  this  metallic  lustre  was  softened 
into  tints,  —  first  orange,  and  then  bright,  transparent 
crimson,  along  the  horizon,  rising  through  the  different 
hues,  with  prismatic  regularity,  until,  immediately  above 
us,  the  sky  was  a  deep  pure  blue,  merging  towards 
the  east  into  glowing  violet.  .  .  .  These  beautiful  hues 
grew  brighter  as  the  twilight  below  increased  in  depth ; 
and  it  now  came  marching  up  the  valley  of  the  glaciers 
until  it  reached  our  resting-place.  Higher  and  higher 
still,  it  drove  the  lovely  glory  of  the  sunlight  before 
it,  until  at  last  the  vast  Dome  du  Goute  and  the 
summit  itself  stood  out,  icelike  and  grim,  in  the  cold 
evening  air,  although  the  hoiizon  still  gleamed  with 
a  belt  of  rosy  light.  .  .  .  The  stars  had  come  out,  and 
looking  over  the  plateau,  I  soon  saw  the  moonlight 
lying  cold  and  silvery  on  the  summit,  stealing  slowly 
down  the  very  track  by  which  the  sunset  glories  had 
passed  upward  and  away.  ...  In  such  close  communion 
with  Nature  in  her  grandest  aspect,  with  no  trace  of 
the  actual  living  world  beyond  the  mere  speck  that 
our  little  party  formed,  the  mind  was  carried  far  away 
from  its  ordinary  trains  of  thought  —  a  solemn  emotion 
of  mingled  awe  and  delight,  and  yet  self-perception  of 
abject  nothingness,  alone  rose  above  every  other  feeling. 


—     48     — 

A  vast  untrodden  region  of  cold,  and  silence,  and  death, 
stretched  out,  far  and  away  from  us,  on  every  side; 
but  above,  heaven,  with  its  countless,  watchful  eyes, 
was  over  all!" 


Mr.  A.  H.  Cloug-h. 

Arthur  Hugh  Clough  (1819 — 1861)  is  a  philosophic 
and  satirical  poet,  who  is  little  read,  and  was  never 
popular.  His  best-known  poem  is  the  Bothie  of  Tober- 
na-Vuolich,  (1848)  which,  being  written  in  hexameter 
metre,  is  somewhat  heavy  reading,  in  spite  of  the 
rich  vein  of  comedy  pervading  it  through  and  through. 
In  one  of  his  best  poems,  Easter  Day,  he  presents  us 
with  a  curious  doubleness  of  view,  a  fantastic  combi- 
nation of  the  doubts  of  the  sceptic  with  the  faith  of 
the  believer;  though  he  finally  teaches  us,  that 

Hope  conquers  cowardice,  joy  grief; 
Or,  at  the  least,  faith  unbelief. 

Though  dead,  not  dead; 

Not  gone,  though  fled; 

Not  lost,  though  vanquished: 
In  the  great  Gospel  and  true  creed, 
He  is  yet  risen  indeed; 

Christ  is  yet  risen. 

Mr.  Clough,  at  his  death,  left  an  unfinished  set  of 
poems,  called  Mari  Magno,  which  have  been  compared 
by  critics  to  the  stern  but  strikingly  truthful  sketches 
of  nature  and  character  given  us  by  Crabbe.  These 
poems  differ  widely  in  style  from  his  earlier  pieces. 
As  a  good  specimen  of  his  satirical  and  ironical  vein, 
we  subjoin  the  latest  Decalogue ,  a  new  version  of  the 
ten  commandments,  which  Clough  recommends  as 
better  adapted  than  the  old  one  to  the  present  state 
of  society: 

Thou  shalt  have  one  God  only;  who 
Would  he  at  the  expense  of  two? 
No  graven  images  may  be 
Worsliipped,  except  the  currency: 
Swear  not  at  all;  for,  for  thy  curse 
Thine  enemy  is  none  the  worse : 


—    49    — 

At  Church  on  Sunday  to  attend 

Will  serve  to  keep  the  world  thy  friend: 

Honour  thy  parents;  that  is,  all 

From  whom  advancement  may  befall: 

Thou  shalt  not  kill;  but  need'st  not  strive 

Officiously  to  keep  alive: 

Do  not  adultery  commit; 

Advantage  rarely  comes  of  it : 

Thou  shalt  not  steal;  an  empty  feat, 

When  it's  so  lucrative  to  cheat: 

Bear  not  false  witness;  let  the  lie 

Have  time  on  its  own  wings  to  fly: 

Thou  shalt  not  covet;  but  tradition 

Approves  all  forms  of  competition. 


W.  M.  Thackeray. 

Though  William  Makepeace  Thackeray  (1811—1863) 
never  advanced  any  pretensions  to  be  considered  a  poet, 
we  may  find,  scattered  through  his  novels  and  miscel- 
laneous works,  verses  replete  with  humour  or  pathos, 
which  show  what  he  was  capable  of  doing,  had  he 
seriously  devoted  himself  to  writing  poetry.  Few  readers 
will  peruse  without  emotion  the  following  lines  on  Na- 
poleon the  First  in  the  Chronicle  of  the  Drum: 

He  captured  many  thousand  guns; 

He  wrote  "the  Great"  before  his  name; 
And  dying,  only  left  his  sons 

The  recollection  of  his  shame. 

Though  more  than  half  the  world  was  his. 

He  died  without  a  rood  his  own; 
And  borrowed  from  his  enemies 

Six  foot  of  ground  to  rest  upon. 

He  fought  a  thousand  glorious  wars, 

And  more  than  half  the  world  was  his, 

And  somewhere,  now,  in  yonder  stars, 
Can  tell,  mayhap,  what  greatness  is. 

Of  Thackeray's  humorous  style  of  writing  in  verse 
we  can  scarcely  give  a  better  sample  than  the  verses 
with  the  title,  Peg  of  Limavaddy,  in  the  Irish  Sketch- 
Book. 


50 


PEa  OF  LIMAYADDY.*) 

Riding  from  Coleraine 

(Famed  for  lovely  Kitty  ^) 
Came  a  Cockney  bound 

Unto  Derry  city. 
Weary  was  his  soul, 

Shivering-  and  sad  he 
Bumped  along  the  road 

Leads  to  Limavaddy. 


Limavaddy's  inn's 

But  a  humble  baithouse, 
Where  you  may  procure 

Whiskey  and  potatoes; 
Landlord  at  the  door 

Gives  a  smiling  welcome 
To  the  shivering  wights 

Who  to  his  hotel  come. 
Landlady  within 

Sits  and  knits  a  stocking, 
With  a  wary  foot 

Baby's  cradle  rocking. 

To  the  chimney  nook 

Having  found  admittance, 
There  I  watch  a  pup 

Playing  with  two  kittens; 
(Playing  round  the  fire, 

Which  of  blazing  turf  is, 
Roaring  to  the  pot 

Which  bubbles  with  the  murphies;') 
And  the  cradled  babe 

Fond  the  mother  nursed  it! 
Singing  it  a  song 

As  she  twists  the  worsted! 

Up  and  down  the  stair 

Two  more  young  ones  patter 
(Twins  were  never  seen 

Dirtier  nor  fatter); 
Both  have  mottled  legs, 

Both  have  snubby  noses, 
Both  have  —  here  the  Host 

Kindly  interposes; 


*)  Limavaddy  (the  Dog's  Leap)  is  a  small  town  in  the  north 
of  Ireland,  on  the  river  Bush. 

')  An  allusion  to  the  popular  song,  Kitty  of  Coleraine. 
')  Popular  name  for  potatoes  in  Ireland. 


—     51     — 

"Sure  you  must  be  froze 
With  the  sleet  and  hail,  sir; 

So  will  you  have  some  punch, 
Or  will  you  have  some  ale,  sir?' 

Presently  a  maid 

Enters  with  the  liquor, 
(Half  a  pint  of  ale 

Frotliin^  in  a  beaker). 
Gods!  I  didn't  know 

What  my  beating  heart  meant 
Hebe's  self  I  thought 

Entered  the  apartment. 
As  slie  came  she  smiled, 

And  the  smile  bewitcliing. 
On  my  word  and  honour, 

Lighted  all  the  kitchen! 

With  a  curtsey  neat 

Greeting  the  new-comer, 
Lovely,  smiling  Peg 

Offers  me  the  rummer; 
But  my  trembling  hand 

Up  the  beaker  tilted, 
And  the  glass  of  ale 

Every  drop  I  spilt  it: 
Spilt  it  every  drop 

(Dames,  who  read  my  volmnes, 
Pardon  such  a  word,) 

On  my  what-d'ye-call'ems ! 

Witnessing  the  sight 

Of  that  dire  disaster, 
Out  began  to  laugh 

Missis,  maid,  and  master; 
Such  a  merry  peal, 

Specially  Miss  Peg's  was, 
(As  the  glass  of  ale 

Trickling  down  my  legs  was). 
That  the  joyful  sound 

Of  that  ringing  laughter 
Echoed  in  my  ears 

Many  a  long  day  after. 

Such  a  silver  peal! 

In  the  meadows  listening, 
You  who've  heard  the  bells 

Ringing  to  a  christening; 
You  who  ever  heard 

Caradori  pretty. 


4* 


—    52     — 

Smiling  like  an  angel, 

Singing  "Gioviuetti," 
Fancy  Peggy's  laugh, 

Sweet,  and  clear,  and  cheei*ful, 
At  my  pantaloons 

With  half  a  pint  of  beer  full  1 

When  the  laugh  was  done. 

Peg.  the  pretty  hussy, 
Moved  about  the  room 

Wonderfully  busy; 
Now  she  looks  to  see 

If  the  kettle  keep  hot, 
Now  she  rubs  the  spoons. 

Now  she  cleans  the  teapot; 
Now  she  sets  the  cups 

Trimly  and  secui'e. 
Now  she  scours  a  pot. 

And  so  it  was  I  drew  her. 

Thus  it  was  I  drew  her, 

Scouring  of  a  kettle, 
(Faith!  her  blushing  cheeks, 

Kedden'd  on  the  metal!) 
Ah!  but  'tis  in  vain 

That  I  try  to  sketch  it; 
The  pot  perhaps  is  like. 

But  Peggy's  face  is  wretched. 
No:  the  best  of  lead. 

And  of  Indian-rubber, 
Never  could  depict 

That  sweet  kettle-scrubber! 

See  her  as  she  moves! 

Scarce  the  ground  she  touches, 
Airy  as  a  fay, 

Graceful  as  a  duchess. 
Bare  her  rounded  arm. 

Bare  her  little  leg  is, 
Vestris  never  show'd 

Ankles  like  to  Peggy's: 
Braided  is  her  hair. 

Soft  her  look  and  modest, 
Slim  her  little  waist 

Comfortably  boddiced. 

This  I  do  declare, 

Happy  is  the  laddy 
Who  the  heart  can  share 

Of  Peg  of  Limavaddy ; 


—    5B    — 

Married  if  she  Avere. 

Blest  would  be  the  daddy 
Of  the  children  fair 

Of  Peg  of  Limavaddy; 
Beauty  is  not  rare 

In  the  land  of  Paddy, 
Fair  beyond  compare 

Is  Peg  of  Limavaddy. 

Citizen  or  squire 

Tory,  Whig,  or  Kadi- 
cal  would  all  desire 

Peg  of  Limavaddy. 
Had  I  Homer's  fire, 

Or  that  of  Sergeant  Taddy, 
Meetly  I'd  admire 

Peg  of  Limavaddy. 
And  till  I  expire, 

Or  till  I  grow  mad,  I 
AVill  sing  unto  my  lyre 

Peg  of  Limavaddy ! 


Samuel  Lover. 


Among  the  successful  song-writers  of  the  Victorian 
Age  must  be  mentioned  Samuel  Lover  (1797 — 1868). 
This  highly  talented  man,  a  native  of  Dublin,  was  a 
poet,  musician,  painter  and  novelist.  He  occasionally 
gave  public  entertainments,  reciting  his  own  sketches 
of  Irish  life,  and  singing  his  own  songs,  and  always 
succeeded  in  delighting  Ms  audience,  not  only  in  Ire- 
land and  England,  but  in  America.  Lover's  principal 
songs  are,  the  Angels'  Whisper^  the  low-backed  Car,  Molly 
Bawn,  the  Land  of  the  West,  and  the  Four-leaved  Shamrock. 

THE  LAND  OF  THE  WEST. 

Oh,  come  to  the  West,  love  —  oh,  come  there  with  me; 
'Tis  a  sweet  land  of  verdure  that  springs  from  the  sea, 
Where  fair  Plenty  smiles  from  her  emerald  throne; 
Oh,  come  to  the  West,  and  I'll  make  thee  mine  oavu! 
I'll  guard  thee,  I'll  tend  thee,  I'll  love  thee  the  best. 
And  you'll  say  there's  no  land  like  the  land  of  the  West! 

The  South  has  its  roses  and  bright  skies  of  blue. 

But  ours  are  more  sweet  with  love's  own  changeful  hue  — 


—    54    — 

Half  sunshine,  half  tears,  like  the  girl  I  love  best;  — 
Oh!  what  is  the  South  to  the  beautiful  West! 
Then  come  to  the  West,  and  the  rose  on  thy  mouth 
Will  be  sweeter  to  me  than  the  flow'rs  of  the  South! 

The  North  has  its  snow-tow'rs  of  dazzling  array, 
All  sparkling  with  gems  in  the  ne'er-setting  day ; 
There  the  Storm-king  may  dwell  in  the  halls  he  loves  best, 
But  the  soft-breathing  zephyr  he  plays  in  the  West. 
Then  come  there  with  me,  where  no  cold  wind  doth  blow, 
And  thy  neck  will  seem  fairer  to  me  than  the  snow. 

The  Sun  in  the  gorgeous  East  chaseth  the  night 
When  he  riseth,  refresh'd,  in  his  glory  and  might! 
But  where  doth  he  go  when  he  seeks  his  sweet  rest? 
Oh!  doth  he  not  haste  to  the  beautiful  West? 
Then  come  there  with  me;  'tis  the  land  I  love  best, 
'Tis  the  land  of  my  sires!  —  'tis  my  OAvn  darling  West. 


W.  Carleton, 


William  Carleton  (1798—1869),  the  well-known 
author  of  Traits  and  Stories  of  the  Irish  Peasantry^  has, 
like  Thackeray,  interspersed  his  prose- works  with  oc- 
casional verses  and  short  poems.  His  most  remarkable 
poetical  effort  is  called  Sir  Turlough,  or,  the  Church- 
yard Bride,  a  poem  which  has  some  resemblance  to 
Goethe's  Bride  of  Corinth,  and  is  founded  on  an  ancient 
and  curious  Irish  superstition.  It  is  believed,  among 
the  Irish  peasantry,  that  if  a  man  at  a  funeral  loiters 
in  the  churchyard  after  the  departure  of  the  other 
mourners,  he  meets  with  a  lady  of  surpassing  beauty, 
who  casts  such  a  spell  over  him,  that  he  pledges  him- 
self by  a  kiss  to  meet  her  again  in  the  same  place  on 
that  day  month.  With  this  embrace,  however,  a  deadly 
poison  diffuses  itself  through  his  whole  frame,  and  from 
that  moment  he  begins  to  waste  away,  so  that  when 
the  appointed  day  arrives,  it  is  his  dead  body  that  is 
borne  to  the  trysting- place.  In  Carleton's  poem  the 
constantly  recurring  chorus:  "Killeevy,  0  Killeevy!" 
is  intended  to  represent  the  keen,  or  wailing  of  the 
hired  mourners,  as  it  is  still  practised  in  some  remote 
districts  of  Ireland. 


55 


SIR  TURLOUGH,  OR,  THE  CHURCHYARD  BRIDE. 

The  bride  she  bound  her  golden  hair, 

Killeevy,  0  Killeevy! 
And  her  step  was  light  as  the  breezy  air, 
When  it  bends  the  morning  flowers  so  fair 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

The  bridegroom  is  come  with  youthftil  brow, 

Killeevy,  0  Killeevy! 
To  receive  from  his  Eva  her  virgin  vow. 
"AVhy  tarries  the  bride  of  my  bosom  now?" 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

A  cry!  a  cry!  'twas  her  maidens  spoke, 

Killeevy,  0  Killeevy! 
"Your  bride  is  asleep  —  she  has  not  awoke; 
And  the  sleep  she  sleeps  will  never  be  broke," 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

Sir  Turlough  sank  down  with  a  heavy  moan, 

Killeevy,  0  Killeevy! 
And  his  cheek  became  like  the  marble  stone  — 
"Oh,  the  pulse  of  my  heart  is  for  ever  gone!" 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

The  keen  is  loud,  it  comes  again, 

Killeevy,  0  KiUeevy! 
And  rises  sad  from  the  funeral  train, 
As  in  sorrow  it  winds  along  the  plain, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

There  is  a  voice  that  but  one  can  hear, 

Killeevy,  0  Killeevy! 
And  it  softly  pours  from  behind  the  bier 
Its  notes  of  death  on  Sir  Turlough's  ear, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

The  keen  is  loud,  but  that  voice  is  low, 

Killeevy,  0  KiUeevy! 
And  it  sings  its  song  of  sorrow  slow, 
And  names  young  Turlough's  name  with  woe. 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

Now  the  grave  is  closed,  and  the  mass  is  said, 

Killeevy,  0  Killeevy! 
And  the  bride  she  sleeps  in  her  lonely  bed, 
The  fairest  corpse  among  the  dead 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 


—     56     — 

"Oh,  go  not  yet  —  not  yet  away, 

Killeevj^,  0  Killeevy! 
Let  us  feel  that  life  is  near  our  clay," 
The  long-departed  seem  to  say, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods   of  Killeevy. 

But  the  tramp  and  voices  of  life  are  gone, 

Killeevy,  0  KiUeevy! 
And  beneath  each  cold  forgotten  stone. 
The  mouldering  dead  sleep  all  alone. 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

But  who  is  he  who  lingereth  yet? 

Killeevy,  0  Killeevy! 
The  fresh  green  sod  with  his  tears  is  wet. 
And  his  heart  in  the  bridal  grave  is  set, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

Oh,  who  but  Sir  Turlough,  the  young  and  brave, 

Killeevy,  0  Killeevy! 
Should  bend  him  o'er  that  bridal  grave, 
And  to  his  death-bound  Eva  rave. 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

"Weep  not,  weep  not,"  said  a  lady  fair, 

Killeevy,  0  Killeevy! 
"Should  youth  and  valour  thus  despair, 
And  pour  their  vows  to  the  empty  air?" 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods   of  Killeevy. 

There's  charmed  music  upon  her  tongue, 

Killeevy,  0  Killeevy! 
Such  beauty  —  bright  and  warm  and  young  — 
Was  never  seen  the  maids  among. 

By  the  bonnie   green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

The  charm  is  strong  upon  Tuiiough's  eye, 

Killeevy,  0  Killeevy! 
His  faithless  tears  are  already  dry. 
And  his  yielding  heart  has  ceased  to  sigh. 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods   of  Killeevy. 

"The  maid  for  whom  thy  salt  tears  fall, 

Killeevy,  0  Killeevy! 
Thy  grief  or  love  can  ne'er  recall; 
She  rests  beneath  that  grassy  pall, 

By  the  bonnie  green  Avoods  of  Killeevy. 


—     57     — 

''My  lieart  it  strangely  cleaves  to  thee, 

Killeevy,  0  Killeevy! 
And  now  that  thy  plighted  love  is  free, 
Give  its  unbroken  pledge  to  me," 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

"To  thee,"  the  charmed  chief  replied, 

Killeevy,  0  Killeevy! 
"I  pledge  that  love  o'er  my  buried  bride; 
Oh!  come,  and  in  Turlough's  hall  abide," 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

Again  the  funeral  voice  came  o'er, 

Killeevy,  0  Killeevy! 
The  passing  breeze,  as  it  wailed  before. 
And  streams  of  mournful  music  bore. 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

"If  I  to  thy  youthful  heart  am  dear, 

Killeevy,  0  Killeevy ! 
One  month  from  hence  thou  wilt  meet  me  here, 
Where  lay  thy  bridal  Eva's  bier," 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevj^. 

He  pressed  her  lips  as  the  words  were  spoken, 

Killeevy,  0  Killeevy! 
And  his  banshee's*)  wail  —  now  far  and  broken  — 
Murmur'd  "Death,"  as  he  gave  the  token, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

"Adieu,  adieu!"  said  this  lady  bright, 

Killeevy,  0  Killeevy! 
And  she  slowly  passed  like  a  thing  of  light, 
Or  a  morning  cloud,  from  Sir  Turlough's  sight, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

Now  Sir  Turlough  has  death  in  every  vein, 

Killeevy,  0  Killeevy! 
And  there's  fear  and  grief  o'er  his  wide  domain. 
And  gold  for  those  who  will  calm  his  brain. 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 


*)  What  rank  the  banshee  holds  in  the  scale  of  spiritiial 
beings,  it  is  not  easy  to  determine;  but  her  favourite  occupation 
seems  to  be  that  of  foretelling  the  death  of  the  different  branches 
of  the  families  over  which  she  presided,  by  the  most  plaintive  cries. 
—  Miss  Balfour. 


—     58     — 

"Come,  haste  thee,  leech,  right  swiftly  ride, 

Killeevy,  0  Killeevy! 
Sir  Tiirlough  the  hrave,  green  Traagh's  pride, 
Has  pledged  his  love  to  the  churchyard  bride." 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

The  leech  groaned  aloud,  "Come,  tell  me  this, 

Killeevy,  0  Killeevy! 
By  all  thy  hopes  of  weal  and  hliss. 
Has  Sir  Turlough  given  the  fatal  kiss?" 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

"The  banshee's  cry  is  loud  and  long, 

Killeevy,  0  Killeevy! 
At  eve  she  weeps  her  funeral  song, 
And  it  floats  on  the  twilight  breeze  along," 

By  the  bonnie   green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

"Then  the  fatal  kiss  is  given  —  the  last 

Killeevy,  0  Killeevy! 
Of  Turlough's  race  and  name  is  past. 
His  doom  is  sealed,  his  die  is  cast," 

By  the  bonnie   green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

The  leech  has  failed,  and  the  hoary  priest, 

Killeevy,  0  Killeevy ! 
With  pious  shrift  his  soul  releas'd, 
And  the  smoke  is  high  of  his  funeral  feast. 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

The  shanachies*)  now  are  assembled  all, 

Killeevy,  0  Killeevy! 
And  the  songs  of  praise,  in  Sir  Turlough's  hall. 
To  the  sorrowing  harp's  dark  music  fall 

By  the  bonnie   green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

The  month  is  closed,  and  green  Truagh's  pride, 

Killeevy,  0  Killeevy! 
Is  married  to  death  —  and  side  by  side. 
He  slumbers  now  with  his  cluircliyard  bride, 

By  the  bonnie  green  woods  of  Killeevy. 

From  Carleton's  story,  Owen  McCarthy,  we  extract 
another  specimen  of  his  poetry,  in  a  dilFerent  style,  and 
on  a  widely  dilferent  subject: 

»)  The  bards. 


—     59     — 
THE  NATIVE  GLENS. 

Take,  proud  ambition,  take  tliy  fill 

Of  pleasures,  won  through  toil  or  crime ; 
Go,  learning,  climb  thy  rugged  hill, 

And  give  thy  name  to  future  time; 
Philosophy,  be  keen  to  see 

Whatever  is  just,  or  false,  or  vain; 
Take  each  thy  meed;  but  oh!  give  me 

To  range  my  mountain  glens  again. 

Pure  was  the  breeze  that  fann'd  my  cheek, 

As  o'er  Knockmany's  brow  I  went; 
When  every  lonely  dell  could  speak, 

In  airy  music,  vision  sent:  — 
False  world,  I  hate  thy  cares  and  thee; 

I  hate  the  treacherous  haunts  of  men ; 
Give  back  my  early  heart  to  me. 

Give  back  to  me  my  mountain  glen. 

How  bright  my  youthful  visions  shone, 

When  spann'd  by  fancy's  radiant  form; 
But  now  her  glitt'ring  bow  is  gone, 

And  leaves  me  but  the  cloud  and  storm; 
With  wasted  form  and  cheek  all  pale  — 

With  heart  long  sear'd  by  grief  and  pain. 
Diinroe,  I'll  seek  thy  native  gale  — 

I'll  tread  thy  mountain  glens  again. 

Thy  breeze  once  more  may  fan  my  blood  — 

Thy  valleys  all  are  lovely  still; 
And  I  may  stand  where  oft  I  stood, 

In  lonely  musings  on  thy  hill: 
But  ah !  the  spell  is  gone ;  —  no  art, 

In  crowded  to^^^l  or  native  plain. 
Can  teach  a  crushed  and  breaking  heart 

To  pipe  the  song  of  youth  again! 

William  Caiieton  was  the  son  of  a  small  farmer 
in  the  County  Tyrone,  Ireland,  and  being  designed  for 
the  church,  received  the  education  of  a  priest;  but  he 
declined  to  take  orders,  and  resolved  to  support  him- 
self by  his  pen.  He  rendered  his  country  most  impor- 
tant services  by  his  Irish  tales,  in  which  he  exposed 
the  oppression  practised  by  greedy  landlords  and  agents, 
and  his  writings  have  exercised  a  salutary  influence 
on  recent  parliamentary  legislation.  Though  an  Irish- 
man and  a  Eoman  Catholic,   he  palliates  neither  the 


—     60     — 

faults  of  the  peasantry  nor  those  of  their  spiritual 
guides,  the  priests.  For  several  years  before  his  death, 
Carleton  enjoyed  a  pension  of  L.  200  from  the  liter aiy 
fund. 


Rev.  Francis  Mahony  (Father  Prout.) 

The  Rev.  Francis  Mahony y  an  Irish  Eoman  Catholic 
priest,  born  in  1805,  and  educated  in  France,  contri- 
buted to  Eraser  s  Magazine^  in  18B4,  a  series  of  wittj^ 
papers,  as  the  Reliques  of  Father  Prout,  late  parish 
priest  of  Water  grass-hill,  in  the  County  of  Cork,  Ireland. 
These  papers  are  remarkable  for  the  singular  skill  of 
their  author  in  the  production  of  comic  rhymes,  as  well 
as  for  the  unrivalled  facility  he  displays  in  turning 
verse  from  one  language  into  another.  By  the  latter 
talent  he  was  enabled  to  play  oif  a  practical  joke  on 
his  countryman,  Thomas  Moore,  which  annoyed  the  poet 
not  a  little.  Having  translated  a  number  of  the  Irish 
Melodies  into  Latin  and  French,  he  gravely  maintained 
in  one  of  these  contributions  to  Fraser,  that  Moore  had 
stolen  them  from  French  and  Latin  originals.  Thus 
the  lines: 

Lesbia  hath  a  beaming  eye, 

But  no  one  knows  for  whom  it  beameth; 

Eight  and  left  its  arrows  fly, 
But  what  they're  aimed  at  no  one  dreameth, 

he  maintained,  were  merely  a  translation  of 

Lesbia  semper  hinc  et  inde 

Oculorum  tela  movit; 
Captat  omnes,  sed  deinde 

Quis  ameter  nemo  novit. 

In  like  manner  he  gave  the  pretended  French 
original  of  "Go  where  glory  waits  thee;"  which  he 
attributed  to  a  French  countess  who  lived  in  the  first 
half  of  the  sixteenth  century.  Perhaps  Moore  was  the 
only  reader  of  this  paper  who  did  not  enjoy  the  joke. 
As  a  specimen  of  Mahony's  powers  in  a  different  style 
of  writing,  we  quote  his  lines  on  the  flight  of  the 
swallows  at  the  end  of  autumn: 


—     61     — 

Down  comes  rain-drop,  bubble  follows: 

On  the  house-top  one  by  one 
Flock  the  synagogue  of  SAvallows, 

Met  to  vote  that  autumn's  gone. 

There  are  hundreds  of  them  sitting, 

Met  to  vote  in  unison; 
They  resolve  on  general  flitting, 

"I'm  for  Athens  off,"  says  one. 

"Every  year  my  place  is  filled  in 

Plinth  of  pillared  Parthenon, 
Where  a  ball  has  struck  the  building. 

Shot  from  Turk's  besieging  gun." 

"As  for  me,  I've  got  my  chamber 

O'er  a  Smyrna  coffee-shop, 
Where  his  beadroU,  made  of  amber 

Hadji')  counts,  and  sips  a  drop." 

"I  prefer  Palmyra's  scantlings,') 

Architraves  of  lone  Baalbec, 
Perched  on  which  I  feed  my  bantlings 

As  they  ope  their  bonnie  beak." 

Wliile  the  last,  to  tell  her  plan  says, 

"On  the  second  cataract 
I've  a  statue  of  old  Eamses, 

And  his  neck  is  nicely  crack'd." 

A   complete   edition  of  Mahony's  works   appeared 
in  1870,  not  long  after  his  death. 


Lord  Lytton  (Edward  Lytton  Biilwer  Lytton). 

The  celebrity  of  Lord  Lytton  (1805—1872)  as  a 
novelist  has  made  many  readers  forget  that  he  began 
his  literary  career  as  a  poet;  and,  in  fact  it  can 
hardly  be  said  that  he  ever  altogether  gave  up  verse- 
making.  His  earliest  effusions,  especially  0*Neil  or  the 
Rebel,  he  indirectly  confesses,  in  his  preface  to  the 
Siamese  Twins,  were  imitations  of  Byron,  but  he  frames 


*)  General  name  for  a  Mahometan  pilgrim  to  Mecca. 
*)  Properly  speaking,  timber  cut  small  for  building  purposes: 
but  likewise,  the  general  form  or  outline  of  an  object. 


—     62     — 

for  liimself  an  ingenious  excuse.  He  says:  "While  the 
public,  fascinated  by  the  brilliancy  of  a  bold  and  un- 
common genius,  grow  wedded  to  his  style  —  even  to 
his  faults  —  they  resent  with  peculiar  contempt  any 
resemblance  to  the  object  of  an  admiration  which  thej' 
affect  to  preserve  as  an  exclusive  worship.  And  yet 
how  few  can  escape  from  a  seeming  imitation,  which 
in  reality  is  nothing  more  than  the  tone  of  the  age  in 
which  they  live;  and  though  more  emphatically  noted 
in  the  most  popular  poet  than  in  his  less  fortunate 
contemporaries,  he  also  was  influenced  by,  instead  of 
creating.''  Of  his  more  matured  poetical  efforts  one  of 
the  best  is  Milton,  which,  as  he  informs  us,  "is  founded 
upon  the  well-known,  though  unauthenticated  tradition 
of  the  Italian  lady  seeing  Milton  asleep  under  a  tree, 
and  leaving  some  verses  beside  him,  descriptive  of  her 
admiration  of  his  beauty."  Lord  Lytton  makes  the 
young  poet  awake  in  time  to  distinguish  the  lady's 
features,  and  he  is  no  less  struck  with  her  beauty  than 
she  is  with  his. 

O'er  him  she  leant  enamour'd,  and  her  sigh 
Breath'd  near  and  nearer  to  his  silent  mouth, 
Rich  with  the  hoarded  odours  of  the  south. 
Did  her  locks  touch  his  cheek?  or  did  he  feel 
Her  breath  like  music  o'er  his  spirit  steal? 
I  know  not  —  but  the  spell  of  sleep  was  broke; 
He  started  —  faintly  murmur' d  —  and  awoke! 

He  woke  as  Moslems  wake  from  death,  to  see 

The  Houris  of  their  heaven ;  and  reverently, 

He  look'd  the  transport  of  his  soul's  amaze: 

And  their  eyes  met!  —  the  deep,   deep  love  supprest 

For  years,  and  treasur'd  in  each  secret  breast 

Waken'd,  and  glow'd,  and  center'd  in  their  gaze. 

And  their  eyes  met  —  one  moment  and  no  more! 

Young  Milton,  after  some  time  has  elapsed,  meets 
witli  the  lady,  who  is  called  Zoe,  in  Rome,  and  they 
become  declared  lovers ;  but  they  are  at  last  forced  to 
part,  and  Milton  returns  to  England,  to  aid  in  uphold- 
ing the  menaced  cause  of  liberty.  Years  pass  over. 
The  poet  becomes  blind  and  old.  and  sinks  gradually 
into  the  grave. 


—     63     — 

Beneath  a  church's  chancel  there  were  laid 

A  great  man's  bones  —  and  when  tlie  crowd  was  gone, 

An  aged  woman,  in  black  robes  arrayed, 

Lingered  and  wept  beside  the  holy  stone. 

None  knew  her  name,  or  land;  her  voice  was  sweet 

With  the  strange  music  of  a  foreign  tongue : 

Thrice  on  that  spot  her  bending  form  they  meet, 
Thrice  on  that  stone  are  freshest  garlands  hung. 
On  the  fourth  day  she  came  not;  and  the  wreath 
Look'd  dim  and  withered  from  its  odorous  breath; 
And  if  I  en*  not  wholly,  on  that  day, 
A  soul  that  loved  till  death  had  passed  away  I 

The  Siamese  Twins  is  a  satirical  poem,  in  four 
books.  It  purports  to  contain  the  history  of  the  Siamese 
brothers,  Ching  and  Chang,  but  is  full  of  hard  hits  at 
English  society,  as  it  existed  in  1831.  Many  of  these 
have  now  lost  their  point;  even  the  ironical  compli- 
ments, in  the  dedication  to  the  great  traveller  and 
champion  of  the  English  aristocracy.  Captain  Basil  Hall, 
will  be  hardly  understood  by  many  readers.  Another 
satire  of  Lord  Lytton's,  the  New  Timon,  is  really  an 
admirable  production,  not  unworthy  of  Byron  or  Pope, 
but  the  author  has  marred  its  effect  a  good  deal,  not 
ouly  by  the  undiscriminating  praise  or  blame  which 
he  lavishes  on  nearly  all  the  leading  men  of  the  day, 
but  also  by  encumbering  it  with  an  improbable  romantic 
story,  which  he  would  have  done  better  to  omit.  It  is  in 
the  New  Timon,  the  iirst  part  of  which  appeared  in 
December  1845,  that  the  sarcastic  allusion  to  Tennyson 
occurred,  which  drew  on  Lord  Lytton  a  severe  casti- 
gation  from  the  laureate.  The  obnoxious  lines  were: 

Not  mine,  not  mine  (0  Muse  forbid!)  the  boon 
Of  borrow'd  notes,  the  mock-bird's  modish  tune, 
The  jingling  medley  of  purloined  conceits, 
Out-babying  Wordsworth  and  out-glittering  Keats; 
Where  all  the  airs  of  patch-work  pastoral  chime 
To  drown  the  ears  in  Tennysonian  rhyme! 

Let  school-miss  Alfred  vent  her  chaste  delight 
On  "darling  little  rooms  so  warm  and  light;" 
Chant  "I'm  a-weary"  in  infectious  strain, 
And  catch  "the  blue  fly  singing  i'  the  pane;" 


—     64     — 

Tho'  praised  by  critics  and  adored  by  Blues, 
Tho'  Peel  with  pudding  plump  the  puling  muse, 
Tho'  Theban  taste  the  Saxon  purse  controls, 
And  pensions  Tennyson  while  starves  a  Knowles.*) 

Among  Lord  Lytton's  more  important  poetical  works, 
we  have  still  to  mention  Eva,  the  El-omened  Marriage, 
which  appeared,  in  conjunction  with  some  other  pieces, 
in  1842;  and  King  Arthur,  a  legendary,  allegorical, 
satirical  and  serio-comic  poem  in  twelve  books,  imitated 
from  Spenser  and  Ariosto,  but  too  long  to  sustain  the 
interest  and  avoid  tediousness,  in  spite  of  its  many 
keen  allusions  to  modern  public  personages.  The  first 
part  of  this  poem  was  published  in  1848,  not  long 
after  the  February  revolution  in  Paris,  the  remainder 
in  the  following  year ;  and  many  of  the  characters  may 
be  easily  identified  as  actors  in  that  great  political 
drama.  Thus,  Guizot,  under  the  name  of  Astutio,  is 
presented  to  us  as  a  man  who 

Took  souls  for  wares,  and  conscience  for  a  till ;  ^) 
And  damned  his  fame  to  serve  his  master's  will. 


In  the  volume  previously  mentioned  (Eva),  there 
are  some  good  verses.  The  ingenious  illustration  of  the 
difference  between  genius  and  mere  talent  is  familiar 
to  every  educated  Englishman: 

Genius,  the  sudden  Iris  of  the  skies, 

On  cloud  itself  reflects  its  wondrous  dyes : 

And,  to  the  earth,  in  tears  and  glory  given. 

Clasps  in  its  airy  arch  the  pomp  of  Heaven! 

Talent  gives  all  that  vulgar  critics  need  — 

From  its  plain  horn-book  learn  the  dull  to  read: 

Genius,  the  Pythian  of  the  beautiful, 

Leaves  its  large  truths  a  riddle  to  the  dull  — 

From  eyes  profane  a  veil  the  Isis  screens, 

And  fools  on  fools  still  ask  —  "What  Hamlet  means  ?" 


*)  Sir  Robert  Peel  had  granted  Tennyson  a  pension  of  ^200 
a -year.  Mr.  Knowles  finally  obtained  a  pension  to  the  same 
amount. 

')  A  money-box  in  a  shop. 


—    65    — 

Of  Lord  Lytton's  shorter   poems  we   give  a  few 
specimens : 

SONG. 

Ah,  let  us  love  while  yet  we  may: 

Our  summer  is  decaying; 
And  woe  to  hearts  which  in  their  gray 

December  go  a-maying. 

Ah,  let  us  love,  while  of  the  fire 

Time  hath  not  yet  bereft  us: 
With  years  our  warmer  thoughts  expire, 

Till  only  ice  is  left  us. 

We'll  fly  the  bleak  world's  bitter  air  — 

A  brighter  home  shall  win  us; 
And  if  our  hearts  grow  weary  there, 

We'll  find  a  world  within  us. 

They  preach  that  passion  fades  each  hour, 
That  nought  will  pall  like  pleasure: 

My  bee,  if  life's  so  frail  a  flower, 
Oh,  haste  to  hive  its  treasure! 

Wait  not  the  hour  when  all  the  mind 

Shall  to  the  crowd  be  given; 
For  links  which  to  the  million  bind 

Shall  from  the  one  be  riven. 

But  let  us  love  while  yet  we  may: 

Our  summer  is  decaying; 
And  woe  to  hearts  which  in  their  gray 

December  go  a-maying. 

THE  FLOWER  GIRL  BY  THE  CROSSING. 

By  the  muddy  crossing  in  the  crowded  streets 

Stands  a  little  maid  with  her  basket  full  of  posies, 
Proffering  all  who  pass  her  choice  of  knitted  sweets. 

Tempting  Age  with  heart's-ease,  courting  Youth  with  roses. 
Age  disdains  the  heart's-ease, 

Love  rejects  the  roses; 
London  life  is  busy  — 

Who  can  stop  for  posies? 

One  man  is  too  grave,  another  is  too  gay  — 

This  man  has  his  hothouse,  that  man  not  a  penny; 
Flowerets  too  are  common  in  the  month  of  May, 

And  the  things  most  common  least  attract  the  many. 
Ill  on  London  crossings 

Fares  the  sale  of  posies ; 
Age  disdains  the  heart's-ease. 
Youth  rejects  the  roses. 

5 


—     66     - 


.    KNOWLEDGE. 

'Tis  midnight!  Round  the  lamp  which  o'er 
My  chamber  sheds  its  lonely  beam, 

Is  A\nidely  spread  the  varied  lore 

Which  feeds  in  youth  our  feverish  dream 

The  dream  —  the  thirst  —  the  wild  desire, 
Delirious  yet  divine  —  to  know; 

Around  to  roam  —  above  aspire  — 

And  drink  the  breath  of  Heaven  below ! 

From  Ocean  —  Earth  —  the  Stars  —  the  Sky, 

To  lift  mysterious  Nature's  pall; 
And  bare  before  the  kindling  eye 
In  Man  the  darkest  mist  of  all! 

Alas!  what  boots  the  midnight  oil? 

The  madness  of  the  struggling  mind? 
Oh,  vague  the  hope,  and  vain  the  toil 

Which  only  leaves  us  doubly  blind! 

What  learn  we  from  the  Past?  —  the  same 
Dull  course  of  glory,  guilt  and  gloom  : 

I  ask'd  the  Future,  and  there  came 

No  voice  from  its  unfathom'd  womb. 

The  Sun  was  silent,  and  the  Wave; 

The  Air  but  answer'd  with  its  breath : 
But  Earth  was  kind;  and  from  the  grave 

Arose  the  eternal  answer  —  Death! 

And  this  was  all!  We  need  no  sage 
To  teach  us  Nature's  only  truth. 

0  fools!  o'er  Wisdcmi's  idle  page 

To  waste  the  hours  of  golden  youtli ! 

In  Science  wildly  do  we  seek 

What  only  withering  years  should  bring 
The  languid  pulse  —  the  feverish  cheek  — 

The  spirits  drooping  on  their  wing! 

To  think,  is  but  to  learn  to  groan  — 
To  scorn  what  all  besides  adore  — 

To  feel  amid  the  world  alone, 
An  alien  on  a  desert  shore; 

To  lose  the  only  ties  which  seem 

To  idler  gaze  in  mercy  given!  — 

To  find  love,  faith,  and  hope,  a  dream, 

And  tnvii  to  dark  despair  from  heaven! 


f)7 

We  close  our  remarks  on  Lord  L3^tton's  poetry 
by  quoting  Tennyson's  stinging  reply  to  Lord  Lytton's 
attack  on  liim  in  the  New  Timon.  To  thoroughly  ap- 
preciate the  force  of  the  retort,  it  is  necessary  to  know, 
tliat  Lord  Lytton,  a  very  dressy  man,  was  susi)ected 
by  the  public  of  resorting  to  certain  means,  for  the 
adornment  of  his  person,  which  may  be  excusable  in 
women,  but  are  generally  looked  on  as  ridiculous  in 
a  man.  The  verses,  which  originally  appeared  in  1846 
in  the  London  Punch,  are  here  given  in  full: 

THE  NEW  TIMON  AND  THE  POET. 

We  know  him  out  of  Shakespeare's  art, 
And  those  full  curses  which  he  spoke; 

The  old  Timon,  with  Ms  noble  heart, 
That  strongly  loatliing-,  greatly  broke. 

So  died  the  Old;  here  comes  the  New. 

Regard  him;  a  familiar  face; 
I  thought  we  knew  him:  What,  it's  you, 

The  padded  man  that  wears  the  stays; 

Who  killed  the  girls,  and  thrilled  the  boys 
With  dandy  pathos  when  you  wrote; 

0  Lion!  you  that  made  a  noise, 

And  shook  a  mane  en  papillotes, 

And  once  you  tried  tlie  Muses  too,  — 

You  failed,  Sir;  therefore  now  yow.  turn; 

You  fall  on  those  who  are  to  you 
As  captain  is  to  subaltern^). 

But  men  of  long-enduring  hopes, 

And  careless  what  the  hour  may  bring. 

Can  pardon  little  would-be  Popes') 

And  Brummels^)  when  they  try  to  sting. 

An  artist,  Sir,  should  rest  in  Art, 

And  waive  a  little  of  his  claim ; 
To  have  a  great  poetic  heart 

Is  more  than  all  poetic  fame. 


*)  The  self-assertion  in  these  two  lines  someM^hat  impairs  the 
eifect  of  the  retort. 

')  Alexander  Pope. 

')  The  reference  is  to  Beau  Brummel,  a  famous  dandy  in  the 
latter  part  of  George  the  Third's  reign. 


—     68     — 

But  you,  Sir,  you  are  hard  to  please, 

You  never  look  but  half  content, 
Nor  like  a  gentleman  at  ease. 

With  moral  breadth  of  temperament. 

And  what  with  spites  and  what  mth  fears, 

You  cannot  let  a  body  be; 
It's  always  ringing*  in  your. ears  '■ — 

They  call  this  man  as  great  as  me. 

"What  profits  now  to  understand 

The  merits  of  a  spotless  shirt  — 
A  dapper  boot  —  a  little  hand  — 

If  half  the  little  soul  is  dirt? 

You  talk  of  tinsel!  Why,  we  see 

Old  marks  of  rouge  upon  your  cheeks. 

You  prate  of  Nature !  Y  o  u  are  he 

That  spilt  his  life  upon  the  cliques. 

A  Timon  you!  Naj'^,  nay,  for  shame; 

It  looks  too  arrogant  a  jest  — 
The  fierce  old  man  to  take  his  name  — 

You  bandbox!  Oif,  and  let  him  rest. 

We  should  greatly  hesitate  to  certify  the  accuracy 
and  justice  of  everything  in  these  lines,  but  Lord 
Lytton  certainly  gave  the  provocation. 


Rev.  Charles  Kingsley. 

The  Rev.  Charles  Kingsley  (1819 — 1875),  sometime 
Regius  Professor  of  Modern  History  at  Cambridge,  and 
afterwards  Canon  of  Westminster,  has  written  some 
good  poetry,  though  he  is  best  known  to  the  general 
public  by  his  novels  and  other  works  in  prose.  In  1847 
he  published  a  dramatic  poem,  called  the  Saint*s  Tragedy, 
based  on  the  story  of  St.  Elizabeth  of  Hungary;  and 
he  afterwards  wrote  Andromeda,  and  a  number  of  minor 
poetical  effusions.  Two  specimens  of  Kingsley's  poetry 
are  subjoined: 

THREE  FISHERS. 

Three  fishers  went  sailing  out  into  the  west. 
Out  into  the  west,  as  the  sun  went  down ; 

Each  thought  on  the  woman  who  loved  him  best. 

And  the  children  stood  watching  them  out  of  the  town. 


—    69     — 

For  men  must  work  and  women  must  weep, 
And  there's  little  to  earn,  and  many  to  keep, 
Thougli  the  harbour  be  moaning. 

Three  wives  sat  up  in  the  light-house  tower, 

And  they  trimmed  the  lamps  as  the  sun  went  down; 
They  looked  at  the  squall,  and  they  looked  at  the  shower, 
And  the  night-rack  came  rolling  up  ragged  and  brown. 
But  men  must  work  and  women  must  weep, 
Though  storms  be  sudden  and  waters  deep. 
And  the  harbour  be  moaning. 

Three  corpses  lay  out  on  the  shining  sands 

In  the  morning  gleam  as  the  tide  went  down, 
And  the  women  are  weeping  and  wringing  their  hands 
For  those  who  will  never  come  back  to  the  town. 
For  men  must  work  and  women  must  weep. 
And  the  sooner  it's  over  the  sooner  to  sleep, 
And  good-bye  to  the  bar  and  its  moaning. 

THE  DAY  OF  THE  LORD. 

The  day  of  the  Lord  is  at  hand,  at  hand! 

Its  storms  roll  up  the  sky: 
The  nations  sleep  starving  on  heaps  of  gold ; 

All  dreamers  toss  and  sigh; 
The  night  is  darkest  before  the  morn; 
When  the  pain  is  sorest  the  child  is  born, 

And  the  day  of  the  Lord  is  at  hand. 

Gather  you,  gather  you,  angels  of  God  — 

Freedom,  and  Mercy,  and  Truth; 
Come !  for  the  Earth  is  grown  coward  and  old ; 

Come  down  and  renew  us  her  youth. 
Wisdom,  Self-Sacrifice,  Daring,  and  Love, 
Haste  to  the  battle-field,  stoop  from  above, 

To  the  day  of  the  Lord  at  hand. 

In  these  lines  "the  day  of  the  Lord"  is  not  used 
in  a  religions,  but  in  a  social  and  political  sense;  and 
refers  to  that  moral  and  intellectual  elevation  which 
Kingsley  believed  the  human  race  capable  of  att£^ining\ 


Lord  Houghton. 

Richard  Moncton  Milnes ,  later  Lord  Houghton 
(1808 — 1885),  published  four  volumes  of  poems  between 
1840  and  1844,   the  first  of  which  was   called,  Poetry 


—     70     — 

for  the  People.  In  1848  he  produced  the  Life  and  Remains 
of  Keats,  Of  his  pleasing;,  gTaceful,  and  thoughtful  style 
the  following  verses  Avill  serve  as  a  specimen: 

LONG-AGO. 

On  that  deep-retiring  shore 

Frequent  pearls  of  beauty  lie, 
Where  the  passion-waves  of  yore 

Fiercely  heat  and  mounted  high: 
Sorrows  that  are  sorrows  still 

Lose  the  bitter  taste  of  woe; 
Nothing's  altogether  ill 

In  the  griefs  of  Long-ago. 

Tombs  where  lonely  love  repines, 

Ghastly  tenements  of  tears. 
Wear  the  look  of  happy  shrines 

Through  the  golden  mists  of  years : 
Death  to  those  who  trust  in  good. 

Vindicates  his  hardest  blow; 
Oh !  Ave  would  not,  if  we  could, 

Wake  the  sleep  of  Long-ago ! 

Though  the  doom  of  swift  decay 

Shocks  the  soul  where  life  is  strong, 
Though  for  frailer  hearts  the  day 

Lingers  sad  and  overlong  — 
Still  the  weight  will  find  a  leaven. 

Still  the  spoiler's  hand  is  slow, 
While  the  future  has  its  heaven. 

And  the  past  its  Long-ago. 

THE  HOWITTS. 
William  and  Mary  Howitt  published  a  great  deal 
of  both  prose  and  poetry,  under  their  joint  names,  from 
the  year  of  their  marriage  (1823)  up  to  the  time  of 
Mr.  Howitt's  death  (1879).  Of  kindred  tastes,  they 
spent  many  long  happy  years  together  in  literary  labour 
and  fellowship.  The  following  stanzas  in  their  earliest 
published  volume,  the  Forest  Minstrel,  place  before  us 
an  attractive  picture  of  the  felicity  of  so  well  assorted 
a  union  as  theirs: 

Away  with  the  pleasure  that  is  not  partaken! 

There  is  no  enjoyment  by  one  only  ta'en: 
I  love  in  my  mirth  to  see  gladness  awaken 

On  lips,  and  in  eyes,  that  reflect  it  again. 


71 

When  we  sit  by  the  lire  that  so  cheerily  blazes 

On  our  cozy  hearthstone,  with   its   innocent  glee, 

Oh!  how  my  soul  warms,  Avhile  my  eye  fondly  gazes, 
To  see  my  delight  is  partaken  by  thee! 

And  when,  as  how  often,  I  eagerly  listen 

To  stories  thou  read'st  of  the  dear  olden  day, 
How  deliglitful  to  see  our  eyes  nmtually  glisten, 

And  feel  that  affection  has  sweetened  the  lay. 
Yes,  love,  and  when  wandering  at  even  or  morning, 

Through  forest  or  wild,  or  by  waves  foaming  white, 
I  have  fancied  new  beauties   the  landscape  adorning 

Because  I  have  seen  thou  wast  glad  in  the  sight. 

And  how  often  in  crowds,  where  a  whisper  offendeth, 

And  we  fain  would  express  what  there  might  not  be  said ; 
How  dear  is  the  glance  that  none  else  comprehendeth, 

And  how  sweet  is  the  thought  that  is  secretly  read! 
Then  away  witli  the  pleasure  that  is  not  partaken! 

There  is  no  enjoyment  by  one  only  ta'en: 
I  love  in  my  mirth  to  see  gladness  awaken 

On  lips,  and  in  eyes,  that  reflect  it  again. 

Mrs.  Howitt  possessed  more  of  the  poetic  faculty 
than  her  husband.  The  subjoined  lines  have  appeared 
under  her  own  name: 

Alas!  what  secret  tears  are  shed, 

What  wounded  spirits  bleed; 
What  loving  hearts  are  sundered. 

And  yet  man  takes  no  heed! 
He  goeth  in  his  daily  course, 

Made  fat  with  oil  and  wine; 
And  pitieth  not  the  weary  souls. 

That  in  his  bondage  pine. 

To  him  they  are  but  as  the  stones 

Beneath  his  feet  that  lie, 
It  entereth  not  his  thoughts  that  they 

From  him  claim  sympathy; 
It  entereth  not  his  thoughts  that  God 

Heareth  the  sufferer's  groan, 
That,  in.  his  righteous  eye,  their  life 

Is  precious  as  his  own. 

Mr.  Howitt  is  the  author  of  an  interesting  work 
entitled  Student  Life  in  Germany.  Mrs.  Howitt  has  trans- 
lated Frederika  Bremer's  principal  tales  from  the  Swedish 


—     72     — 

into  English.  Both  husband  and  wife  were  brought  up 
as  members  of  the  Society  of  Friends,  or,  as  they  are 
popularly  called,  "the  Quakers." 


Mr.  A.  A.  Watts. 

Alaric  Alexander  Watts  (not  to  be  confounded  with 
Dr.  Isaac  Watts),  born  in  London  in  1799,  was  many 
years  connected,  as  editor  or  contributor,  Avith  the 
newspaper  press.  He  likewise  originated  or  edited 
several  of  those  collections  of  tales  and  poetry,  known 
by  the  generic  name  of  annuals,  wliich  were  once  so 
popular  in  England.  His  Poetical  Sketches  were  published 
in  1822,  and  another  volume  of  poetry,  the  Lyrics  of 
the  Heart,  appeared  in  1850;  but  most  of  his  best 
pieces  were  written  for  the  Literary  Souvenir,  and  some 
other  periodical  works  of  the  same  class.  Mr.  A¥atts 
writes  with  taste  and  elegance.  His  beautiful  verses. 
Ten  Years  Ago,  were  addressed,  as  will  be  readily 
surmised,  to  his  wife,  a  daughter  of  William  and  Marv 
Homtt,  who  died  24th  July,  1884.  Mr.  Watts  quit'e 
recently  resigned  his  secretarysliip  in  the  Inland  Revenue 
Office,  and  retired  into  private  life. 

Ten  years  ago,  ten  years  ago, 

Life  was  to  us  a  fairy  scene, 
And  the  keen  blasts  of  worldly  woe 

Had  seared  not  then  its  pathway  green. 
Youth  and  its  thousand  dreams  were  ours. 

Feelings  we  ne'er  can  know  again, 
Unwithered  holies,  unwasted  powers, 

And  frames  unworn  by  mortal  pain: 
Such  was  the  bright  and  genial  flow 

Of  life  with  us  —  ten  years  ago ! 

Time  has  not  blanched  a  single  hair 

That  clusters  round  thy  forehead  now; 
Nor  hath  the  cankering  touch  of  care 

Left  even  one  furrow  on  thy  brow. 
Thine  eyes  are  blue  as  when  we  met. 

In  love's  deep  truth,  in  earlier  years; 
Thy  cheek  of  rose  is  blooming  yet, 

Though  sometimes  stained  by  secret  tears; 
But  where,  oh!  Avhere's  the  spirit's  glow 

That  shone  through  all  ten  years  ago! 


73 


I,  too,  am  changed  —  I  scarce  know  why  — 

Can  feel  each  flagging  pulse  decay; 
And  youth  and  health,  and  visions  high, 

Melt  like  a  wreath  of  snow  away; 
Tiiue  cannot  sure  have  wrought  the  ill; 

Though  worn  in  this  world's  sickening  strife, 
In  soul  and  form,  I  linger  still 

In  the  first  simimer  month  of  life; 
Yet  journey  on  my  path  below. 

Oh!  how  unlike  —  ten  years  ago! 

But  look  not  thus:  I  would  not  give 

The  wreck  of  hopes  that  thou  must  share, 
To  bid  those  joyous  hours  revive 

When  all  around  me  seemed  so  fair. 
We've  wandered  on  in  sunny  weather, 

When  winds  were  low,  and  flowers  in  bloom. 
And  hand  in  hand  have  kept  together, 

And  still  will  keep  'mid  storm  and  gloom; 
Endeared  by  ties  we  could  not  know 

When  life  was  young  —  ten  years  ago! 

Has  fortune  frowned?  Her  frowns  were  vain. 

For  hearts  like  oui's  she  could  not  chill; 
Have  friends  proved  false?  Their  love  might  wane, 

But  ours  grew  fonder,  firmer  still. 
Twin  barks  on  this  world's  changing  wave, 

Steadfast  in  calms,  in  tempests  tried; 
In  concert  still  our  fate  we'll  brave, 

Together  cleave  life's  fitful  tide; 
Nor  mourn,  whatever  winds  may  blow. 

Youth's  first  wild  dreams  —  ten  years   ago! 

Have  we  not  knelt  beside  his  bed, 

And  w^atched  our  first-born  blossom  die? 
Hoped  till  the  shade  of  hope  had  fled. 

Then  wept  till  feeling's  fount  was  dry? 
Was  it  not  sweet,  in  that  dark  hour. 

To  think,  'mid  mutual  tears  and  sighs, 
Our  bud  had  left  its  earthly  bower. 

And  burst  to  bloom  in  Paradise? 
What  to  the  thought  that  soothed  that  woe 

Were  heartless  joys  —  ten  years  ago? 

Yes,  it  is  sweet,  when  heaven  is  bright, 
To  share  its  sunny  beams  with  thee; 

But  sweeter  far,  'mid  clouds  and  blight 
To  have  thee  near  to  weep  with  me. 


74 


Then  dry  those  tears  —  though  something  changed 
From  what  we  were  in  earlier  youtli, 

Time,  that  hath  hopes  and  friends  estranged, 
Hath  left  us  love  in  all  its  truth, 

Sweet  feelings  we  would  not  forego 
For  life's  best  joys  —  ten  years  ago. 


P.  J.  Bailey. 

Philip  James  Bailey,  born  in  1816  at  Nottingham, 
is  a  philosophical  poet,  who  between  1839  and  1858 
produced  four  poems,  entitled  respectively  Festus,  the 
Angel  World,  the  Mystic,  and  the  Age,  the  first  three 
in  blank  verse,  the  last,  which  is  a  satire  in  the  style 
of  Cowper's  Table  Talk,  in  verse.  The  most  successful 
of  these  poems  by  far  is  Festus^  in  which  the  writer 
depicts  the  upw^ard  soaring  of  a  purified  soul  towards 
the  universal  source  of  life.  In  the  first  edition,  this 
poem  consisted  of  only  about  one  thousand  lines,  but 
it  has  been  gradually  expanded  by  the  author,  at  the 
expense  of  its  popularity  as  we  believe,  till  in  the 
tenth  edition  the  number  of  lines  can  be  hardly  less 
than  thirty  to  forty  thousand.  When  it  first  appeared, 
the  influence  of  Festus  on  the  thinking  world  was  elec- 
trical, and  its  readers  maintained  that  it  stilled  a  craving 
which  neither  philosophy  nor  theology  had  till  then  been 
able  to  satisfy.  Though  we  cannot  accept  this  excessive 
laudation,  we  readily  admit,  that  the  poem  abounds  in 
admirable  'passages.  Let  us  take  as  an  example  the 
lines  in  which  Festus  dwells  on  the  transitory  nature 
of  beauty,  and  the  common  lot  of  humanity? 

Festus.  Who  doth  not 

Believe  that  that  he  loveth  cannot  die? 
There  is  no  mote  of  death  in  thine  eye's  beams 
To  hint  of  dust,  or  darkness,  or  decay; 
Eclipse  upon  eclipse,  and  death  on  death; 
No!  immortality  sits  mirrored  there, 
Like  a  fair  face  long  looking  on  itself; 
Yet  shalt  thou  lie  in  death's  angelic  garb. 
As  in  a  dream  of  dress,  my  beautiful: 
The  worm  shall  trail  across  thine  unsunned  sweets, 
And  feast  him  on  the  heart  men  pined  to  death  for; 
Yea,  have  a  happier  knowledge  of  thy  beauties 
Than  best-loved  lover's  dream  e'er  duped  him  with. 


—     Id     --- 

In  another  line  passage  lie  maintains  the  necessity 
of  faith  for  the  poet. 

The  world  is  lull  of  glorious  likenesses. 

The  poet's  power  is  to  sort  them  out; 

And  to  make  music  from  the  common  strings 

AVith  which  the  world  is  strung;  to  make   the  dumb 

Earth  utter  heavenly  harmony,  and  draw 

Life  clear,  and  sweet,  and  luirmless  as  spring  water 

Welling  its  way  through  flowers.     Without  faith, 

Illimitable  faith,  strong  as  a  state's 

In  its  own  might,  in  God,  no  bard  can  be. 

Mr.  Bailey's  similes  are  always  happily  chosen : 

Some  peaceful  spot  where  we  might  dwell  unknown; 
Where  home-born  joys  might  nestle  round  our  hearts 
As  swallows  round  our  roofs. 

Just  when  the  stars  falter  forth  one  by  one. 
Like  the  tirst  words  of  love  from  a  maiden's  lips, 

I  said  we  were  to  part,  but  she  said  nothing; 
There  was  no  discord  —  it  was  music  ceased. 

Eleven  years  after  Festus,  appeared  t\i^  AngelWorld, 
but  readers  complained,  that  the  execution  was  inferior 
to  the  boldness  of  the  conception,  and  that  they  missed 
in  it  nearly  all  the  qualities  that  had  charmed  then 
in  the  earlier  poem.  Disappointed  and  chagrined  at 
this  verdict,  which  Mr.  Bailey  refused  to  accept,  he 
incorporated  the  whole  of  the  Angel  World  into  the 
next  edition  of  Festus,  a  hazardous,  and  not  a  very 
successful  experiment. 


Hon.  MPS.  Norton. 
The  Hon.  Mrs.  Norton,  called  by  a  writer  in  the 
Quarterly  Review  "the  Byron  of  our  modern  poetesses," 
is  the  daughter  of  Thomas,  the  only  son  of  Richard 
Brinsley  Sheridan,  and  was  born  in  1808.  When  hardly 
seventeen,  Caroline  Sheridan  wrote  a  pathetic  village 
tale  in  verse,  called  the  Sorrows  of  Rosalie,  wdiich  was 
followed  in  1831  by  the  Undying  One,  founded  on  the 
old  legend  of  the  Wandering  Jew,  and  in  1845  by  the 
Child  of  the  Islands,   a  poem   designed  to  interest  the 


—     76     — 

young  Prince  of  Wales  in  the  privations  and  suiferings 
of  the  humbler  classes.  In  1827  she  was  married  to 
the  Hon.  George  Chappie  Norton,  but  the  union  was 
dissolved  in  1840,  under  circumstances  peculiarly  painful 
for  the  lady.  The  persecution  to  which  at  that  time 
she  was  subjected,  has  lent  a  tinge  of  melancholy  and 
bitterness  to  most  of  her  later  poetry.  Mrs.  Norton  has 
written  a  number  of  ballads,  which  are  highly  popular, 
particularly  Love  not!  C^rom  the  Sorrows  of  Rosalie) ^ 
My  Childhood's  Home,  I  i^emember  thy  Voice,  and  We  have 
been  Friends  together. 

LOVE  NOT! 

Love  not!  Love  not!  ye  hapless  sons  of  clay, 

Hope's  gayest  wreaths  are  made  of  earthly  flow'rs : 

Things  that  are  made  to  fade  and  fall  away 

Ere  they  have  blossom'd  for  a  few  short  hours. 
Love  not!  Love  not! 

Love  not!  Love  not!  the  thing  you  love  may  die, 
May  perish  from  the  gay  and  gladsome  earth; 

The  silent  stars,  the  blue  and  smiling  sky 

Beam  on  its  grave,  as  once  upon  its  birth. 
Love  not!  Love  not! 

Love  not!  Love  not!  the  thing  you  love  may  change 
The  rosy  lip  may  cease  to  smile  on  you; 

The  kindly  beaming  eye  grow  cold  and  strange, 
The  heart  yet  warmly  beat,  but  not  be  true. 
Love  not!  Love  not! 

Love  not!  Love  not!  oh,  warning  vainly  said! 

In  present  hours,  as  in  years  gone  by, 
Love  flings  a  halo  round  the  dear  one's  head, 

Faultless,  immortal,  till  they  change  or  die. 
Love  not!  Love  not! 

In  all  her  trials,  in  good  report  as  in  bad  report, 
Mrs.  Norton  found  a  firm  friend  in  the  Duchess  of 
Sutherland,  to  whom  she  addressed  the  following  ele- 
gant lines: 

Thou,  then,  when  cowards  lied  away  my  name. 
And  scoifed  to  see  me  feebly  stem  the  tide; 

When  some  were  kind  on  whom  I  had  no  claim, 
And  some  forsook  on  whom  my  love  relied, 

And  some,  who  might  have  battled  for  ray  sake 

Stood  off  in  doubt  to  see  what  turn  the  world  would  take. 


—       V  ^      — 

Thou  gav'st  me  that  the  poor  do  give  the  poor, 
Kind  words  and  holy  wishes,  and  true  tears; 

The  loved,  the  near  of  kin  could  do  no  more, 

Who  changed  not  with  the  gloom  of  varying  years, 

But  clung  the  closer  when  I  stood  forlorn, 

And  blunted  Slander's  dart  with  their  indignant  scorn. 

Like  Byron,  Mrs.  Norton  felt  a  genuine  admiration 
and  warm  friendship  for  the  banker-poet  Rogers,  the 
author  of  the  Pleasures  of  Memory,  and  one  of  the 
few  who  remained  faithful  to  her  grandfather  in  sickness 
and  adversity.  Rogers's  unwavering  fidelity  to  Sheridan, 
after  that  unfortunate  genius  had  been  abandoned 
by  his  former  patron,  the  Prince  Regent  (afterwards 
George  IV.),  is  touchingly  referred  to  by  Mrs.  Norton : 

And  when  at  length  he  laid  his  dying  head 
On  the  hard  rest  of  his  neglected  bed. 
He  found  (though  few  or  none  around  him  came 
WTiom  he  had  toiled  for  in  his  hour  of  fame  — 
Though  by  his  prince  unroyally  forgot 
And  left  to  struggle  with  his  altered  lot). 
By  sorrow  weakened,  by  disease  unnerved  — 
Faithful  at  least  the  friend  he  had  not  served: 
For  the  same  voice  essayed  that  hour  to  cheer, 
Which  now  sounds  welcome  to  his  grandchild's  ear ; 
And  the  same  hand,  to  aid  that  life's  decline. 
Whose  gentle  grasp  so  late  was  linked  in  mine. 

It  was  this  desertion  of  Sheridan,  in  poverty  and 
disease,  by  his  royal  patron  that  suggested  to  Thomas 
Moore   the  ingenious   but  acrimonious  simile: 

In  the  woods  of  the  north  there  are  insects  that  prey 
On  the  brain  of  the  elk,  till  his  very  last  sigh; 

0  Genius,  thy  patrons,  more  cruel  than  they. 

First  feed  on  thy  brains,  and  then  leave  thee  to  die! 

In  the  prose- writings  of  Mrs.  Norton,  we  find  the 
same  covert  but  continual  allusions  to  the  wrongs  ot 
her  wedded  life  as  in  her  poetry.  Her  three-volume 
novel,  Stuart  of  Dunleath,  gives  us  an  interesting  but 
sombre  picture  of  social  life,  the  prevailing  gloom  of 
which  is  hardly  relieved  by  occasional  flashes  of  sar- 
castic humour.  In  Lost  and  Saved,  the  tone  is  equally 
sad,  and  the  incidents,  till  we  reach  the  last  two 
chapters,    of    the    most    harrowing    description.     The 


--     78     — 

heroine,  Beatrice  Brooke,  deceived  by  a  false  marriage, 
becomes  the  victim  of  a  designing  and  heartless  man; 
her  former  friends  desert  her,  refusing  to  believe  in 
her  innocence:  she  sinks  into  the  most  wretched  po- 
verty, and  contemplates  suicide,  but  is  finally  saved. 
These  incidents  give  Mrs.  Norton  occasion  to  make 
some  observations  on  self-murder,  so  striking  and  original 
that  we  are  tempted  to  deviate  so  far  from  the  plan 
of  the  present  work  as  to  reproduce  them  here: 

On  the  fascination  of  suicide  volumes  might  be  written,  but 
all  reasoning  on  that  mystery  resolves  itself  into  the  fact,  too  little 
noticed,  that  it  is  rather  a  physical  than  a  mental  temptation. 
A  man  does  not  debate  on  self-murder;  or  if  he  does,  he  for  that 
time  avoids  the  act.  It  is  not  the  Hamlet  who  stands  with  folded 
arms,  arguing  the  "To  be  or  not  to  be",  who  is  most  in  danger 
of  seeking  his  quietus  with  a  bare  bodkin.  It  is  he  who  has  to 
endure  a  sensation  of  helpless  weariness  in  the  soul,  analogous  to 
the  helpless  weariness  sometimes  felt  in  the  body.  A  man  no  more 
says,  "I  will  endure  so  much,  and  tlien  I  will  commit  suicide," 
than  he  says,  "I  will  Avalk  so  many  miles,  and  then  I  shall  be  so 
exhausted,  I  shall  fling  myself  upon  the  earth  and  rest."  But  in 
his  walk  he  suddenly  pauses  and  says,  "I  can  no  more,"  like  a 
soldier  on  a  march  he  cannot  make.  And  so  the  soul,  taxed  beyond 
the  powers  given,  feels  suddenly,  it  "can  no  more,"  and  drops  from 
the  battle-field  of  life  to  the  rest  of  death ! 

After  life's  fitful  fever,  he  sleeps  well  — 
is  the  sort  of  language  which  the  great  master  of  German  litera- 
ture puts  into  the  mouth  of  Wallenstein,  when  lamenting  his  young 
and  passionate  friend,  Max  Piccolomini,  The  idea  that  predomi- 
nates —  even  in  the  very  freshness  of  the  great  sorrow  that  is 
crushing  the  heart  of  the  tormented  hero  —  is  the  peace  attained 
by  tlie  sharer  of  his  troubled  victories  and  warlike  struggles :  the 
silence  that  for  ever  surrounds  him:  a  silence  in  which  "no  evil- 
boding  hour  can  knell  again!" 

Having  spoken  of  Mrs.  Norton's  sarcastic  humour, 
we  believe  it  will  not  be  out  of  place  to  quote  the 
following  specimen  from  one  of  her  novels.  The  vain 
and  selfish  elderly  Marchioness  of  Updown,  while  daily 
expecting  the  news  of  her  aged  uncle's  death,  learns 
that  one  of  her  nephews  has  suddenly  died,  and  being 
greatly  perplexed  to  know  what  sort  of  mourning  she 
should  order,  Avrites  to  request  the  opinion  of  her  sister 
Eudocia,  who,  by  the  way,  is  the  defunct  nephew's 
mother-in-law : 


I  wish  you  would  write  and  tell  me  about  uncle  Caerlaverock 
—  when  we  may  expect  his  death.  I  suppose,  one  mourning'  Avill 
do  for  both;  at  least,  I  can't  conceive  why  there  should  be  any 
diiference,  as  one  is  a  nepliew  and  the  other  an  uncle,  but  perhaps 
an  uncle  is  deepest.  But  to  be  sure,  your  puzzle  will  be,  that 
though  he's  only  a  nephew,  he  married  Sara;  but  then,  that  won't 
mle  my  mourning,  you  know,  I  do  hate  mourning  altogether;  and 
they've  got  dyes  now  that  all  come  oif.  I'm  sure  I  had  to  wash 
my  hands  twentj'^  times  a-day  the  last  time  I  was  in  black,  and 
1  hate  it.  Do  you  think,  whatever  you  do,  that  I  need  put  on 
any  crape?  Madame  Troisballons  thinks  lace  will  do  just  as  well, 
and  she  has  covered  my  dress  with  a  new  sort  of  lace,  all  worked 
in  little  round  black  beads,  which  I  thought  looked  extremely  well ; 
and  indeed,  it  was  the  first  thing  for  a  long  time  that  has  put  me 
in  spirits.  I  wish,  Eudocia,  you  Avould  try  and  pick  me  up  some 
of  that  heavy  black  Genoese  lace,  like  the  Maltese,  only  finer.  You 
say  you  don't  like  executing  my  commissions,  because  I  never  repay 
you,  but  that  is  really  only  because  you  never  ask  me  when  I  have 
got  any  money. 


Miss   Cook. 

The  popular  poetess,  Miss  Eliza  Cook,  is  a  native 
of  London,  and  was  born  in  1818.  When  twenty  years 
of  age  she  published  a  volume,  with  the  title,  Melaia 
and  other  poems.  After  contributing  for  a  time  to 
several  magazines,  she  began  a  periodical,  in  1849, 
called  Eliza  Cook's  Journal,  which  was  very  successful. 
Miss  Cook's  poetry,  while  quite  original,  has  at  one 
and  the  same  time  sometliing  of  the  character  of  Miss 
Landon's  verses,  without  their  melancholy,  and  some- 
thing of  Mrs.  Hemans's  warmth  of  feeling,  tempered 
by  reflexion.  Her  subjects  she  generally  finds  in  home 
and  the  domestic  circle,  and  she  dwells  with  a  fond  but 
quiet  enthusiasm  on  such  themes  as  Old  Songs,  Christ- 
mas, and  My  old  Arm-Chair .  Her  lines.  Love  on!  in 
reply  to  Mrs.  Norton's  Love  not!  have  been  set  to 
music  by  Mr.  John  Blockley.  We  quote  three  of  her 
shorter  poems: 

CHRISTMAS. 


Once  again,  once  again, 

Christmas  wreaths  are  twining; 
Once  again,  once  again, 

Mistletoe  is  shining. 


—     80     — 

Time  is  marching  through  the  land, 
Deck'd  with  leaf  and  berry; 

He  leads  the  Old  Year  in  his  hand. 
But  both  the  churls  are  merrj\ 

He  speaketh  in  the  clanging  bells, 

He  shouts  at  every  portal; 
God  speed  the  tidings  that  he  tells  — 

"Goodwill  and  peace  to  mortal." 

Gladly  welcome  shall  he  be, 

Even  though  he  traces 
Silver  threads  upon  our  heads 

And  wrinkles  on  our  faces. 

For  once  again,  once  again, 
He  brings  the  happy  meeting; 

When  cynic  lips  may  preach  in  vain 
That  life  is  sad  and  fleeting. 

Christmas  logs  should  beacon  back 
The  wanderer  from  his  roving; 

Leave,  oh!  leave  the  world's  wide  track 
And  join  the  loved  and  loving. 

Spirits  that  have  dwelt  apart, 

Cold  with  pride  and  folly; 
Bring  olive  in  your  hand  and  heart. 

To  weave  with  Christmas  holly. 

Breathe  a  name  above  the  cup, 
And  leave  no  drop  remaining; 

^Vhen  Truth  and  Feeling  fill  it  up, 
'Tis  always  worth  the  draining. 

Though  few  and  short  the  flashes  are 
That  break  on  Care's  dull  story; 

Yet,  like  the  midnight  shooting  star, 
Those  moments  pass  in  glory. 

Then  once  again,  once  again. 
We'll  tap  the  brimming  barrel; 

"Goodwill  and  peace"  shall  never  cease 
To  be  a  wise  man's  carol. 

All,  all  we  love! — a  health  to  those! 

A  bumper!— who  won't  fill  it? 
A  health  to  brave  and  open  foes, 

A  bumper! — who  would  spill  it! 


—     81     — 

And  here's  to  liini  who  ^ruards  our  right 

Upon  the  distant  biHow! 
And  him  who  sk-eps  in  watcli  fire-light 

Upon  his  knapsack  pillow! 

If  changing  fate  has  frown'd  of  late, 

And  some  of  joys  bereft  us, 
Still,  let  ns  "gang  a  gleesome  gait," 

And  prize  the  blessings  left  us. 

Wisdom's  helmet  strapped  too  tight 

Wearies  in  the  bearing; 
And  Folly's  bells  on  Christmas  night 

Are  always  pleasant  wearing. 

Then  once  again,  once  again, 
Let  holly  crown  each  portal; 

And  echo  round  the  welcome  sound — 
"Goodwill  and  peace  to  mortal!" 


THE  WELCOME  BACK. 

Sweet  is  the  hour  that  brings  us  home, 

Where  all  w^ill  spring  to  meet  us; 
Where  hands  are  striving  as  we  come 
To  be  the  first  to  greet  us. 

Oh !  joyfully  dear  is  the  homeward  track 
Wlien  we're  sure  of  a  welcome  back. 

When  the  world  hath  spent  its  froAvns  and  wrath, 

And  care  been  sorely  pressing, 
'Tis  sweet  to  leave  our  roving  path. 
And  find  a  fireside  blessing. 

Oh !  jo;y'fully  dear  is  the  homeward  track 
When  we're  sure  of  a  welcome  back. 

What  do  we  reck  on  a  dreary  way. 

Though  lonely  and  beiiiglited. 
If  we  know  there   are   lips  to  chide   our  stay. 
And  eyes  that  beam  love-lighted. 

Oh !  joyfully  dear  is  the  homeward  track 
When  we're  sure  of  a  w^elcome  back. 


THE  HAPPY  MIND. 

Oh!  out  upon  the  calf,  I  say, 
WTio  turns  his  grumbling  head  away, 
And  quarrels  with  his  feed  of  hay, 
Because  it  is  not  clover. 


—     82     — 

Give  to  me  tlie  liappj  mind. 
That  will  ever  seek  and  Hiul 
Sometliiujj;-  fair  and  something  kind 
All  the  wide  world  over. 

Give  me  the  heart  that  spreads  its  wings, 
Like  the  free  bird  that  soars  and  sings, 
And  sees  the  bright  side  of  all  tilings, 
From  Behring's  Straits  to  Dover. 

'Tis  a  bank  tliat  never  breaks, 
'Tis  a  store  thief  never  takes, 
'Tis  a  rock  that  never  shakes. 
All  the  wide  world  over. 


Miss  F.  Brown. 


Miss  Frances  Brown  is  a  striking  example  of  genius 
forcing  its  way,  in  spite  of  the  most  adverse  circum- 
stances. Born  in  the  year  1816,  in  the  small  village 
of  Stranorlar,  in  the  north-west  of  Ireland,  and  blind 
from  her  earliest  infancy,  she  managed  to  educate  her- 
self by  getting  friends  and  relatives  to  read  her  such 
books  as  she  could  obtain  in  that  remote  locality.  She 
soon  began  to  contribute  short  pieces  to  the  Dublin 
Penny  Journal,  and  in  1841  at  last  ventured  to  send 
some  small  poems  to  the  Athenaeum.  These  offerings 
were  so  favourably  received  by  the  public,  that  she 
was  encouraged  to  publish  a  volume  of  poems  in  1844, 
and  a  second  in  1847.  Miss  Brown  is,  we  think,  most 
successful  in  lyrical  poetry.  She  has  also  furnished 
the  magazines  with  some  short  tales,  which,  though 
not  of  the  liighest  class,  are  surprising  productions  for 
a  blind  lady.  On^  of  these,  we  recollect,  was  called 
the  Kendal  Illumination,  As  a  sample  of  her  poetry, 
we  quote  a  couple  of  stanzas  from  a  piece  called  the 
last  Friends,  in  which  an  Irish  exile  returns  to  see 
once  more  the  hills  of  his  country,  all  his  other  friends 
being  gone. 

I  come  to  my  country,  but  not  with  the  hope 

That  brightened  ray  youth  like  the   cloud-lighting  bow. 

For  the  vigour  of  soul   that  seemed  mighty  to  cope 

With  time  and  with  fortune  liath  lied  from  me  now ; 


83 


Aiul  love,  that  illumined  my  waiurriiii^s  of  yore, 
Hath  perished,  and  left  but  a  weary  i-egret 

For  the  star  that  can  rise  on  my  midnig-ht  no  more — 
But  the  hills  of  my  country  they  welcome  me  yet! 

The  Ime  of  their  verdure  was  fresh  with  me  still, 

When  my  path  was  afar  by  the  Tanais'  lone  track; 
From  the  wide-.^preading-  deserts  and  ruins,  that  fill 

The  lands  of  old  story,  they  summoned  me  back; 
They  rune  on  my  dreams  throu.^h  the  sliades  of  the  west, 

They  breathed  upon  sands  which  the  dcAv  never  wet, 
For  the  echoes  were  hushed  in  the  home  I  loved  best — 

But  I  kncAv  that  the  mountains  would  welcome  me  yetl 


Lord  Tennyson. 

Alfred  Tennyson  is  generallj"  considered  to  be  the 
greatest  poet  of  tlie  Victorian  Age,  and  at  least  he  is 
by  far  the  most  read  of  them  all.  The  son  of  a  clergy- 
man in  Lincolnshire,  he  Avas  born  at  Somersby,  near 
Spilsby,  in  1810;  and  studied  at  Cambridge,  where, 
while  still  an  undergraduate,  he  published  his  first 
volume  of  poems,  chiefly  lyrical,  in  1830.  At  that 
time  his  two  brothers,  Charles  and  Septimus,  were  his 
rivals  in  poetry,  but  he  very  soon  outstripped  them 
both.  This  first  volume  contained,  among  other  sliort 
poems,  ClaiHhel,  Oriana,  the  Merman,  and  Mariana, 
but  though  a  promising  book  for  a  young  author,  it 
met  with  rather  a  chill 3^  reception.  It  must  be  ad- 
mitted that  the  subjects  were  mostly  wanting  in  human 
interest;  and  even  in  one  of  the  best  pieces,  Mariana, 
the  lone  and  desolate  woman,  sitting  in  a  crazy  old 
house,  in  such  a  bleak  and  sterile  landscape  as  the 
poet  Crabbe  has  so  wonderfully  painted,  and  continually 
repeating  to  herself:  "My  life  is  dreary,-'  and  "I  am 
aweary,  aweary,  I  would  that  I  were  dead"  is  not  an 
agreeable  picture  to  dwell  upon.  Three  years  later 
Tennyson  re -published  this  volume  with  omissions, 
alterations  and  decided  improvements,  but  still  it  did 
not  satisfy  the  critics,  and  Tennyson,  mortified,  re- 
mained silent  for  nine  years.  In  1842  he  again  appeared 
before  the  public  with  two  volumes  of  poems;  and  it 
was  quite  evident  that  he  had  made   a  great  advance 

6* 


—     84     — 

in  poetical  power  since  1833.  Some  of  the  poems  in 
this  third  series  were  reprints  of  his  older  verses, 
altered  and  polished,  but  many  of  them,  such  as  the 
Morte  d' Arthur,  Godiva,  and  Locksley  Hall,  were  new. 
Tennyson  now  began  to  find  favour  with  the  reviews, 
and  was  soon  quite  as  much  praised  as  he  had 
previously  been  ridiculed.  It  was  already  whispered, 
too,  that  the  Queen  and  Prince  Albert  were  among  his 
admirers,  and  this  not  a  little  contributed  to  procure 
him  readers  among  the  general  public.  In  1847  ap- 
peared tTie  Princess,  which,  when  first  announced,  gave 
room  to  all  sorts  of  conjectures,  as  it  was  generally 
though  quite  erroneously  believed,  that  it  was  some 
way  or  other  connected  with  the  royal  family.  In  1850 
appeared  In  Memoriam,  a  series  of  short  poems  or 
sonnets  in  memory  of  his  friend,  Arthur  H.  Hallam, 
son  of  the  historian;  and  on  the  death  of  Wordsworth, 
in  the  same  year,  Tennyson  succeeded  to  the  laureate- 
ship.  The  great  London  exhibition  was  opened  the 
next  year,  and  it  was  generally  expected  that  the  new 
laureate  would  hail  it  with  a  poetical  greeting:  but 
Thackeray  forestalled  him  with  an  admirable  ode, 
which  appeared  in  the  Times,  and  Tennyson  lost  his 
chance  till  the  opening  of  the  second  London  exhibition 
in  1862.  When  the  Duke  of  Wellington  died,  however, 
in  1852,  he  wrote  some  verses  on  his  funeral  which 
he  has  never  since  surpassed.  Three  years  later  he 
published  Maud,  a  poem  which,  as  we  learn  from  some 
of  his  friends,  he  regards  as  the  best  thing  he  ever 
wrote;  but  authors  often  err  in  their  judgment  of  their 
own  compositions.  In  1859  he  returned  to  the  Arthurian 
legends,  and  produced  the  Idylls  of  the  King,  which 
were  completed  by  the  successive  addition  of  the  Holy 
Grail,  Pelleas  and  Ettarre^  the  Coming  of  Arthur,  the 
Last  Tournament,  and  finally  Gareth  and  Lynette,  which 
appeared  in  1872,  Enoch  Arden  he  had  already  published 
in  1864. 

Tennyson's  Morte  d' Arthur  is  given  as  a  fragment 
of  an  unfinished  poem,  read  aloud  by  a  young  poet, 
Everard  Hall,  to  a  cheerful  company  assembled 


—     85     — 

At  Francis  Allen's  on  the  Christmas-eve. 

The  incidents  are  much  the  same  as  in  the  old 
French  poem,  of  which  we  have  an  English  version 
in  the  Percy  Reliques.  After  a  disastrous  battle,  in  which 

King  Artliur's  table,  man  by  man 

Had  faUen  in  Lyonness  about  their  Lord, 

the  King-,  mortally  wounded,  is  borne  by  Sir  Bedivere 
to  a  place  of  safety,  but  feeling  the  approach  of  death 
he  bids  the  knight  cast  his  famous  sword.  Excalibur 
—  the  gift  of  the  Lady  of  the  Lake  —  into  the  neigh- 
bouring mere,  and  bring  him  word  what  he  sees.  Sir 
Bedivere  twice  attempts  to  deceive  the  King  by  a 
false  report,  and  retain  the  sword  for  himself,  but  at 
last,  stung  by  Arthur's  reproaches,  he  throws  it  far 
out  into  the  water: 

The  great  brand 
Made  lightnings  in  the  splendour  of  the  moon, 
And  flashing  round  and  round,  and  whirled  in  an  arch. 
Shot  like  a  streamer  of  the  northern  morn, 
Seen  where  the  moving  isles  of  Avinter  shock 
By  night,  Avith  noises  of  the  northern  sea : 
So  flashed  and  fell  the  brand  Excalibur, 

On  returning  to  the  King,  the  knight  finds  him 
dying,  and  in  obedience  to  the  request: 

Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive  my  weight, 

he  bears  him  tenderly  to  the  edge  of  the  mere,  where 
a  dusky  bark,  manned  by  black -hooded  phantoms, 
among  whom  stand  three  queens  with  crowns  of  gold, 
now  lies.  The  ladies  receive  the  dying  monarch: 

But  she  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them  all, 

And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her  lap, 

And  loosed  the  shatterd  casque,  and  chafed  his  hands. 

And  call'd  him  by  his  name,  complaining  loud. 

The  mysterious  crew  join  in  the  lamentation: 

—  from  them  rose 
A  cry  that  shiver'd  to  the  tingling  stars; 

and  the  barge  moves  slowly  off  on  its  way  to  the  happy 
island-valley  of  A\ilion, 


—     86     — 

AVhere  falls  not  rain,  or  hail,  or  any  snow, 
Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly;  but  it  lies 
Deep-meadowed,  happy,  fair  with  orchard-lawns 
And  bowery  hollows  crowned  with  summer  sea. 

Sir  Bedivere  is  the  last  survivor  of  the  knights  of 
the  Round  Table  —  the  last  representative  of  the  old 
order  of  things.    A  new  epocli  is  about  to  begin. 

In  the  Gardeners  Daughterj  the  hero  relates  how 
he  wooed  and  Avon  the  gentle  Rose.  Tlie  poem  abounds 
in  beautiful  descriptions  of  English  scenery.  In  fact, 
it  was  written  shortly  after  Tennyson  had  turned  his 
back  on  the  fens  of  Lincolnshire,  and  fixed  his  residence 
at  Farringford  in  the  Isle  of  Wight.  "The  fields  dev/y- 
fresh,  browsed  by  deep-uddered  kine'',  are  not  common 
in  Lincolnshire ;  where  the  eye  more  frequently  rests 
on  the  "long  gray  fields",  "the  oat-grass  and  the  sword- 
grass  and  the  bulrush  in  the  pool,"  or  the  "tangled 
water-courses"  and  "the  willow  over  the  river"  of  the 
May-Queen  and  his  other  early  poems.  At  the  end  of 
the  Gardeners  Daughter^  tlie  narrator  represents  himself 
as  a  widower,  and  seated  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
portrait  of  his  lost  wife: 

Behold  her  there 
As  I  beheld  her  ere  she  knew  my  heart, 
My  iirst,  last  love :  the  idol  of  my  youth. 
The  darling-  of  my  manhood,  and  alas! 
Now  the  most  blessed  memory  of  mine  age. 

In  the  Miller  s  Daughter,  a  husband  recalls  to  his 
wife  the  history  of  their  courtship  and  marriage,  and 
repeats  a  song  he  had  given  her  on  her  wedding-day: 

It  is  the  miller's  daughter. 

And  she  is  grown  so  dear,  so  dear. 

That  I  would  be  the  jewel 
That  trembles  at  her  ear; 

For  Iiid  in  ringlets  day  and  night, 
I'd  touch  her  neck  so  warm  and  white. 

And  I  would  be  the  girdle 

About  her  dainty,  dainty  waist, 
And  her  heart  would  beat  against  me, 

In  sorrow  and  in  rest: 


87 


And  I  should  Icnow  if  it  beat  right, 
I'd  clasp  it  round  so  close  and  tii>-ht. 

And  I  would  he  the  necklace, 
And  all  day  long-  to  fall  and  rise 

Upon  her  balmy  bosom, 

With  her  laughter  or  her  sighs. 

And  I  would  lie  so  light,  so  light, 
I  scarce  should  be  unclasp'd  at  night. 


Another  of  these  early  poems,  the  Brook,  tells  us 
of  a  lovers'  quarrel  and  reconciliation,  followed  by 
emigration  to  Australia  and  return  to  England;  while 
all  this  time  the  ]3rook,  the  work  of  the  eternal  God, 
still  sweetly  murmured  its  unclianging  lay.  We  (juote 
the  verses  that  more  immediately  refer  to  the  stream: 


I  come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern, 

I  make  a  sudden  sally 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 

To  loicker  doAvn  a  valley. 

By  thirty  hills  I  liurry  down, 
Or  slip  between  tlie  ridges. 

By  twenty  thorps,  a  little  town. 
And  half  a  hundred  bridges. 

Till  last  by  Philip's  farm  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river. 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  chatter  over  stony  ways. 
In  little  sharps  and  trebles, 

I  bubble  into  eddying  bays, 
I  babble  on  the  pebbles. 

With  many  a  curve  my  banks  I  fret 
By  many  a  field  and  fallow, 

And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 
With  willow-weed  and  mallow. 

I  chatter,  chatter,  as  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go. 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 


—     88     — 

I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out, 

With  here  a  blossom  sailing. 
And  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout. 

And  here  and  there  a  grayling, 

And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake 

Upon  me,  as  I  travel 
With  many  a  silvery  waterbreak' 

Above  the  golden  gravel. 

And  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river. 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go. 

But  I  go  on  for  ever.  » 

I  steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots, 

I  slide  by  hazel-covers; 
I  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 

That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 

I  skip,  I  slide,  I  gloom,  I  glance, 

Among  my  skimming  swallows; 
I  make  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 

Against  my  sandy  shallows. 

I  murmur  under  moon  and  star.s 

In  brambly  wildernesses; 
I  linger  by  my  shingly  bars; 

I  loiter  round  my  cresses; 

And  out  again  I  curve  and  flovv- 

To  join  the  brimming  river, 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go. 

But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

The  Talking  Oak  is  a  graceful  poem,  with  a  some- 
what fantastic  subject.  A  lover  converses  with  the  oak 
on  the  charms  of  a  certain  Olivia,  and  the  tree  relates, 
with  what  rapture  the  lady,  on  visiting  the  park,  had 
read  her  name  carved  on  its  trunk  by  the  hand  of 
the  lover.  Hereupon,  the  youth,  who  is  likewise  a  poet, 
vows  he  will  make  the  tree  no  less  famous  than  its 
historical  brother  oak, 

Wherein  the  younger  Charles  abode 

Till  all  the  paths  were  dim; 
And  far  below  the  Jloundhead  rode, 

And  ImmmVl  a  surly  \\ym\\. 

For  descriptive  force,  the  last  two  lines  are  perhaps 
unrivalled. 


89     — 

Godiva  is  the  well-known  legend  of  ('oventry.  Her 
husband,  the  Lord  of  Mercia,  having  laid  a  very  heavy 
tax  upon  the  then  poor  town,  Lady  Godiva  remon- 
strates with  him;  but  he  will  only  consent  to  rescind 
his  resolution  on  terms  which  he  believes  she  cannot 
accept: 

She  sought  her  lorrl.  and  found  him  Avhere  he  stood 
About  the  hall,  among  his  dogs  alone. 

She  told  him  of  their  tears, 
And  prayed  hmi:  "If  they  pay  tliis  tax,  they  starve." 
Whereat  he  stared,  replying,  half  amazed, 
"You  would  not  let  your  little  linger  ache 
For  such  as  these."     "But  I  would  die,"  said  she. 
He  laughed,  and  swore  by  Peter  and  by  Paul, 
Then  lillipped  at  the  diamond  in  her  ear: 
"Oh  ay,  Oh  ay,  you  talk!"  "Alas!"  she  said, 
"But  prove  me  what  it  is  I  would  not  do." 
And  from  a  heart  as  rough  as  Esau's  hand. 
He  answered:  "Ride  you  naked  through  the  tOAvn, 
And  I  repeal  it;"  and  nodding  as  in  scorn, 
He  parted. 

The  lady  takes  him  at  his  word.  On  learning  this, 
the  authorities  of  the  town  decree  that 

—  as  they  loved  her  well. 
From  then  till  noon  no  foot  should  pace  the  street. 
No  eye  look  down,  she  passing;  but  that  all 
Should  keep  Avithin,   door  shut,  and  window  barred. 

This  order  being  strictly  obeyed  by  tlie  citizens, 
Lady  Godiva  "rode  forth,  clothed  on  with  chastity," 
through  all  the  town,  and  back  to  the  castle.  Only  one 
irreverent  and  inquisitive  wight,  the  "Peeping  Tom" 
of  the  popular  legend,  disobeyed  the  prohibition,  and 
met  with  a  signal  punishment: 

One  low  churl,  compact  of  thankless  earth. 

The  fatal  byAvord  of  all  years  to  come. 

Boring  a  little  auger-hole  in  fear, 

Peeped;  but  his  eyes,  before  they  had  their  will. 

Were  shrivelled  into  darkness  in  his  head. 

And   dropped  before  him.     So   the  powers  Avho   wait 

On  noble  deeds  cancelled  a  sense  misused. 


—     90     — 

None  of  Teimysoii's  poems  lias  been  more  praised 
than  Locksley  Hall.  It  is  tiie  complaint  of  an  unfortu- 
nate lover,  who  has  first  been  encouraged,  and  then 
jilted,  b}^  his  cousin  Amy.  Tennyson  is  fond  of  making 
his  principal  personages  tell  tJieir  own  story.  After 
dwelling  upon  the  happy  past,  when  "Love  took  up 
the  glass  of  Time,  and  turned  it  in  his  glowing  hands;" 
when  for  him  every  thing  was  bright  in  nature,  even 
the  most  uninviting  landscape  —  for  Amy  was  there 
beside  him  —  he  turns  with  bitterness  of  soul  to  the 
present,  when  every  illusion  is  gone ,  and  he  exclaims : 
*'0  the  dreary,  dreary  moorland !  0  the  barren,  barren 
shore!"  Not  only  has  Amy  forsaken  him,  but  she  is 
•'mated  with  a  clown,"  one  who  regards  her  as  "Some- 
thing better  than  his  dog,  a  little  dearer  than  his  horse." 
He  continues: 

Drug  thy  memories,  lest  thou  learn  it,  lest  thy  heart  be  put  to  proof, 
In  the  dead,  unhappy  night,  and  when  the  rain  is  on  the  roof. 
Like  a  dog,  he  hunts  in  dream.s.  and  thou  art  staring  at  the  wall, 
Where  the  dying  night-lamp  flickers,  and  the  shadows  rise  and  fall. 
Then  a  hand  shall  pass  before  thee,  pointing  to  his  drunken  sleep, 
To  thy  widowed  marriage-pillows,  to  the  tears  that  thou  wilt  weep. 
Thou  shalt  hear  the  Never,  never,  wliispered  by  the  phantom  years, 
And  the  song  from  out  the  distance  in  the  ringing  of  thine  ears. 
And  an  eye  shall  vex  thee  looking  ancient  kindness  on  thy  pain: 
Turn  thee,  turn  thee,  on  thy  pillow,  get  thee  to  thy  rest  again. 

In  his  disappointment  and  despair,  he  forms  several 
wild  projects  for  tlie  future.  Among  others,  he  proposes 
to  wander: 

On  from  island  unto  island  at  the  gateways  of  the  day ; 
and  there  to   seek  a   compensation   for  what  he  has 
lost  in  Europe: 

I  will  take  some  savage  woman;  she  shall  rear  my  dusky  race. 
But   on  reflexion  he   abandons   this  insensate  scheme: 

Better  fifty  years  of  Europe  than  a  cycle  of  Cathay; 
and  he  resolves  to  grieve  no  longer  for  the  faithless 
Amy,  but  to  go  among  his  fellow-men,  who  have 
achieved  great  things,  and  yet  consider  "that  which 
they  have  done  but  earnest  of  the  things  that  they 
shall  do." 


—     91     — 

The  often-quoted  complaint  of  the  Latin  poet: 
Eheii!   qiiaiii  iiifortuiiii  miserrimum  est  fuisse  felicem, 
has  been  repeated  both  by  Dante  and  by  Tennyson  in 
Locksley  Hall.  The  Italian  poet's  version  is, 

Nessuii  mag'g'ior  dolore 
Che  ricordarsi  del  tempo  felice 
Nella  miseria! 

George  Eliot  gives  the  preference  to  Tennyson's 
rendering  of  the  same  idea: 

This  is  truth  the  poet  sings, 
That  a  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow  is  remembering  happier  things. 

In  the  following  lines,  Tennyson  shows  a  keen  and 
truly  poetical  appreciation  of  the  beauty  of  the  southern 
heavens : 

Many  a  night  from  yonder  ivied  casement,  ere  I  went  to  rest, 
Did  I  look  on  great  Orion  sloping  slowly  to  the  West. 
Many  a  night  I  saw  the  Pleiads,  rising  through  the  mellow  shade, 
Glitter  like  a  swarm  of  fire-flies  tangled  in  a  silver  braid. 

In  the  Lotos-Eaters,  we  are  introduced  to  an  ideal 
world  —  to  the  imaginary  region  in  northern  Africa, 
where  Homer  locates  that  dreamy,  tranquilly  happy 
race  of  men.  About  the  design  of  the  poem  opinions 
are  divided.  While  some  look  on  it  as  merely  a  para- 
phrase of  a  passage  in  the  ninth  book  of  the  Odyssey, 
others  find  in  it  a  warning  against  wasting  our  lives 
in  inglorious  repose.  The  poem  opens  with  the  arrival 
of  a  crew  of  w^earied  seamen  in  this  pleasant  land: 

"Courage!"  he  said,  and  pointed  towards  the  land, 
"This  mounting  wave  will  roll  us  shoreward  soon." 
In  the  afternoon  they  came  unto  a  land, 
In  which  it  seemed  always  afternoon. 
All  round  the  coasts  the  languid  air  did  swoon, 
Breathing  like  one  that  hath  a  weary  dream. 
Full-faced  above  the  valley  shone  the  moon; 
And  like  a  downward  smoke  the  slender  stream 
Along  the  cliff'  to  fall  and  pause  and  fall  did  seem. 
A  land  of  streams!  some,  like  a  downward  smoke. 
Slow-dropping  veils  of  thinnest  lawn,  did  go; 
And  some  thro'  wavering  lights  and  shadows  broke, 
Rolling  a  slumberous  sheet  of  foam  below. 


—     92     — 

They  saw  the  gleamiug  river  seaward  flow 

From  the  inner  laud:  far  oif,  three  mountain  tops, 

Three  silent  pinnacles  of  aged  snow. 

Stood  sunset-flush' d:  and  dew'd  with  showery  drops. 

Up-clomb  the  shadowy  pine  above  the  woven  copse. 

The  charmed  sunset  lingered  low  adown 

In  the  red  West:  thro'  mountain  clefts  the  dale 

Was  seen  far  inland,  and  the  yellow  down 

Border'd  with  palm,  and  nian}^  a  winding  vale 

And  meadow,  set  witli  slender  galingale; 

A  land  where  all  things  always  seem'd  the  same! 

And  round  about  the  keel  with  faces  pale, 

Dark  faces  pale  against  that  rosy  flame 

The  mild-eyed  melancholy  Lotos-eaters  came. 

Branches  they  bore  of  that  enchanted  stem, 

Laden  with  flower  and  frait,  whereof  they  gave 

To  each,  but  Avhoso  did  receive  of  them, 

And  taste,  to  him  the  gusliing  of  the  wave 

Far,  far  away  did  seem  to  mourn  and  rave 

On  alien  shores;  and  if  his  fellow  spake, 

His  voice  was  thin,  as  voices  from  the  grave; 

And  deep-asleep  he  seem'd,  yet  all  awake, 

And  music  in  his  ears  his  beating  heart  did  make. 

The  seamen  then  burst  into  a  Choric  Song,  ex- 
pressive of  the  charms  of  an  existence  in  this  enchanted 
land,  and  their  resolution  to  live  and  die  there. 

Hateful  is  the  dark-blue  sky 
Vaulted  o'er  the  dark-blue  sea. 
Death  is  the  end  of  life;  ah,  why 
Should  life  all  labour  be? 


How  sweet  it  were,  hearing  the  downward  stream. 

With  half-shut  eyes  ever  to  seem 

Falling  asleep  in  a  half-dream! 

To  di'eam  and  dream,  like  yonder  amber  light 

Which  will   not  leave  the  myrrh-bush  on  the  height; 

To  hear  each  other's  whisper'd  speech; 

Eating  the  Lotos  day  by  day, 

To  watch  the  crisping  ripples  on  the  beach, 

And  tender  curving  lines  of  creamy  spray; 

To  lend  our  hearts  and  spirits  wholly 

To  the  influence  of  mild-minded  melancholy! 

To  muse  and  brood  and  live  again  in  memory, 

With  those  old  faces  of  our  infancy, 

Heap'd  over  witli  a  mound  of  grass. 

Two  handfuls  of  white  dust,  sliut  in  an  urn  of  brass! 


—     93     — 

No  reader  of  Thomson  can  fail  to  notice  the  strong 
resemblance  of  the  Lotos- Eaters  to  tlie  Castle  of  Indolence. 

It  is  no  easy  matter  to  characterize  the  Princess. 
Tennyson  calls  it  a  medley  j  and  as  it  is  a  strange 
mixture  of  the  serious  and  the  grotesque,  the  romantic 
and  the  prosaic,  we  may  admit  the  accuracy  of  the 
designation.  It  was  evidently  written  to  cast  ridicule 
on  the  sticklers  for  the  pretended  "rights  of  women," 
but  it  is  disappointing,  and  owes  any  popularity  it 
possesses  to  two  beautiful  lyrics,  which  are  incidentally 
introduced.  The  story  is  incongruous,  not  to  say,  absurd. 
The  Princess  Ida,  who  has  been  betrothed  in  infancy 
to  a  Prince  she  has  never  seen,  is  no  sooner  of 
marriageable  age  than  she  takes  refuge  in*  a  palace 
given  her  by  her  father  King  Gama ,  and  with  the  aid 
of  two  widow  ladies.  Lady  Psyche  and  Lady  Blanche, 
founds  there  a  blue  -  stocldng  university,  from  wiiich 
men  are  to  be  rigorously  excluded.  The  poet  observes 
a  propos  of  this  singular  academy: 

Pretty  were  the  sight 
If  our  old  halls  could  change  their  sex,  and  flaunt 
With  prudes  for  proctors,  dowagers  for  deans, 
And  sweet  girl-graduates  in  their  golden  hair. 
I  think  they,  should  not  wear  our  rusty  gowns. 

The  betrothed  Prince,  chagrined  at  the  flight  of 
the  Princess,  persuades  two  friends,  Florian  and  Cyril, 
to  accompany  him  to  the  university,  all  three  being 
disguised  as  women.  They  are  admitted  as  students, 
but  soon  detected  through  the  indiscretion  of  Cyril. 
After  a  number  of  minor  incidents  of  no  great  impor- 
tance, Arac,  the  Princess's  valiant  brother,  challenges 
the  Prince  to  meet  him  in  mortal  combat.  There  are 
to  be  fifty  combatants  on  each  side,  and  the  lists  are 
prepared.  Ida  watches  the  combat  with  composure 
from  a  tower,  but  when  the  Prince  at  last  falls  dange- 
rously wounded,  her  real  or  assumed  indifference  is 
overcome.  She  stanches  the  blood  of  her  all  but  lifeless 
lover,  tends  him  till  his  recovery,  and  comes  to  the 
conviction  that  the  sphere  of  woman  in  life  is  quite 
different  from  what  she  had  supposed: 


—     94     — 

For  woman  is  not  imdevelopt  man. 

But  diverse:  could  we  make  her  as  the  man, 

Sweet  love  were  slain:  his  dearest  bond  is  this, 

Not  like  to  like,  hut  like  in  difference. 

Yet  in  the  long  years  liker  must  they  grow; 

The  man  he  more  of  woman,  she  of  man; 

He  gain  in  sweetness  and  in  moral  height, 

Nor  lose  the  Avrestling  thews  that  throw  the  world: 

She  mental  breadth,  nor  fail  in  childward  care, 

Nor  lose  the  cMldlike  in  the  larger  mind; 

Till  at  the  last  she  set  herself  to  man, 

Like  perfect  music  unto  noble  words. 


We  subjoin  the  Iavo  h^ics  already  mentioned 

I. 

The  splendour  falls  on  castle  walls, 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story; 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 

And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying; 
Blow,  bugle;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

0  hark,  0  hear!  How  thin  and  clear. 
And  tliinner,  clearer,  farther  going; 

0  sweet  and  far,  from  cliff"  and  scar. 
The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing! 

Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying; 

Blow,  bugle;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

0  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 
They  faint  on  hill,  or  field,  or  river; 

Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul. 
And  grow  for  ever  and  for  ever. 

Blow,  bugle,  blow;  set  the  wild  echoes  flying; 

And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying,  dying. 


II. 

Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead; 

She  nor  swooned,  nor  uttered  cry: 
All  her  maidens,  watching,  said, 

She  must  weep  or  she  will  die. 

Then  they  praised  him,  soft  and  low, 
Called  him  worthy  to  be  loved, 

Tniest  friend  and  noblest  foe; 
Yet  slie  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 


—     95     — 

Stole  a  maiden  from  her  place. 

Lightly  to  the  warrior  stept, 
Took  the  face-cloth  from  the  face; 

Yet  she  neither  moved  nor  wept. 

Eose  a  nurse  of  ninet}'  years, 

Set  his  child  upon  her  knee — 
Like  summer-tempest  came  her  tears — 

Sweet  my  cliihl.  I'll  live  for  thee! 

The  most  characteristic  of  all  Tennesson's  poems  is 
In  Memoriam,  which  overflows  with  the  tenderness  that 
is  the  prominent  feature  of  the  poet's  character.  Passion 
Tennyson  seldom  attempts  to  depict.  His  friend,  Arthur 
Hallam,  died  at  Vienna  in  1838,  and  his  remains  were 
brought  to  En^iand  b.y  w^ay  of  Trieste,  and  interred  in 
a  spot  overlooking-  Bristol  Channel: 

Fair  ship,  tliat  from  t]ie  Italian  shore 
Sailest  the  placid  ocean  plains 
With  my  lost  Arthur's  loved  remains, 

Spread  thy  full  wings  and  waft  them  o'er. 

So  draw  him  liome  to  those  that  mourn 
In  vain:  a  favour-able  speed 
Paifile  thy  mirrored  mast,  and  lead 

Through  prosperous  floods   his  holy   urn. 


The  Danube  to  the  Severn  gave 

The  darkened  heart  that  heats  no  more 
Tliey  laid  him  by  the  pleasant  shore, 

And  in  the  hearing  of  the  wave. 


The  path  by  which  we  twain  did  go, 

Which  led  by  tracts  that  pleased  us  Avell, 
Tlirough  four  sweet  years  arose  and  fell, 

From  flower  to  flower,  from  snow  to  snow: 

But  where  the  path  we  walked  began 
To  slant  the  fifth  autuninal  slope. 
As  we  descended,  follov/ing  hope. 

There  sat  the  Shadow^  feared  of  man ; 

Who  broke  our  fair  companionship. 
And  spread  his  mantle  dark  and  cold; 
And  wrapt  thee  formless  in  the  fold. 

And  dulled  the  murmur  on  thy  lip; 


—     96     — 

And  l)ore  thee  where  I  could  not  see 
Nor  follow,  though  I  walk  in  haste; 
And  think  that,  somewhere  in  the  waste, 

The  Shadow  sits  and  waits  for  me. 

*  * 

* 

Calm  is  the  morn,  without  a  sound, 

Calm  as  to  suit  a  calmer  grief, 

And  only  through  the  faded  leaf 
The  chestnut  pattering  to  the  ground: 

Calm  and  deep  peace  on  this  high  wold, 
And  on  these  dews  that  drench  the  furze, 
And  all  the  silver  gossamers 

That  twinkle  into  green  and  gold; 

Calm  and  deep  peace  in  this  wide  air, 
These  leaves  that  redden  to  the  fall; 
And  in  my  heart,  if  calm  at  all, 

If  any  calm,  a  calm  despair: 

Calm  on  the  seas,  and  silver  sleep, 
And  waves  that  sw?iy  themselves  in  rest, 
And  dead  calm  in  that  noble  breast. 

Which  heaves  but  with  the  heaving  deep. 

The  last  line  of  course  refers  to  the  motion  of  the 
ship  at  sea.  In  this  fine  poem  we  find  occasional  ob- 
scurities, arising  sometimes  from  the  want  of  close 
connexion  between  the  sonnets  of  wliich  it  is  composed, 
and  sometimes  from  over-polish,  for  Tennyson  kept  the 
manuscript  many  years  by  him  before  sending  it  to 
the  press.  The  following  verses,  however,  welcoming 
in  the  new  year,  leave  nothing  to  be  desired  in  point 
of  clearness: 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky, 

The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light: 

The  year  is  dying  in  the  night; 
Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  liim  die. 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new, 
Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow: 
The  year  is  going,  let  him  go; 

Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 

Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind. 
For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more; 
Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor, 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 


—     97     — 

Ring  out  a  slowl}'  dying  cause, 

And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife; 

Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life, 
With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 

Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin, 
The  faithless  coldness  of  the  times; 
Ring  out,  ring  out  my  mournful  rhymes, 

But  ring  the  fuller  minstrel  in. 

Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  and  blood, 

The  civic  slander  and  the  spite; 

Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right, 
Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease, 
Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold; 
Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old, 

Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free, 
The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand; 
Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land; 

Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be! 

In  Maud,  we  again  find  a  hapless  suitor,  who  this 
time  has  been  rejected  by  the  maiden's  family,  in  favour 
of  a  wealthier  lover,  a  new-made  lord.  While  the  father 
is  entertaining  a  number  of  political  friends  at.  dinner 
—  "a  gathering  of  the  Tory"  —  the  lover  seeks  an 
interview  with  the  daughter: 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

For  the  black  bat,  night,  has  flown. 
Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

I  am  here  at  the  gate  alone; 
And  the  woodbine  spices  are  wafted  abroad, 

And  the  musk  of  the  roses  blown. 

For  a  breeze  of  morning  moves. 

And  the  planet  of  Love  is  on  high 
Beginning  to  faint  in  the  light  that  she  lovea 

On  a  bed  of  daffodil  sky. 
To  faint  in  the  light  of  the  sun  that  she  loves, 

To  faint  in  his  light  and  to  die. 

The  concluding  lines  of  the  invocation,  though  a 
little  hyperbolical,  possess  great  beauty : 

She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet; 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  tread, 
My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat. 

Were  it  earth  in  an  earthy  bed; 


—     98     — 

M3'  dust  would  hear  licr  and  beat. 

Had  I  lain  for  a  century  dead; 
Would  start  and  tremble  under  her  feet, 

And  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 

Maud  obej^s  the  summons,  but .  their  interview  is 
rudely  interrupted  by  the  lady's  brother,  who  favours 
the  lordly  wooer.  A  duel  ensues,  in  which  the  intrusive 
brother  falls,  and  the  lover  is  obliged  to  take  refug:e 
in  France.  Here  he  depicts  the  sad  condition  to  which 
he  has  been  reduced  by  unmerited  misfortune: 

Half  the  night  I  waste  in  sighs, 

Half  in  dreams  I  sorrow  after 
The  delight  of  early  skies; 

In  a  wakeful  doze  I  sorrow 
For  the  hand,  the  lips,  the  eyes, 

For  the  meeting"  of  the  morrow, 
The  delight  of  happy  laughter, 

The  delight  of  low  replies. 

Remorse,  and  the  pangs  of  an  eternal  separation, 
at  last  drive  him  mad,  and  we  are  startled  by  the 
strange  delusion  under  which  he  labours,  that  he  is 
dead  and  buried 

Dead,  long  dead. 

Long  dead! 

And  my  heart  is  a  handful  of  dust, 

And  the  wheels  go  over  my  head, 

And  my  bones  are  shaken  with  pain. 

For  into  a  shallow  grave  they  are  thnist, 

Only  a  yard  beneath  the  street. 

And  the  hoofs  of  the  horses  beat,  beat, 

xVnd  the  hoofs  of  the  horses  beat, 

Beat  into  my  scalp  and  brain! 

Fortunately,  while  in  this  deplorable  state,  he  hears 
that  England  and  France  have  declared  war  with  Russia. 
These  tidings  arouse  him  from  his  lethargy; 

"It  is  time,  it  is  time,  0  passionate  heart,"  said  I  — 
For  I  cleaved  to  a  cause  that  I  felt  to  be  pure  and  tnie — 

"It  is  time,  0  passionate  heart  and  morbid  eye, 
That  old  hysterical  mock-disease  should  die;" 

and  he  goes  to  enrol  himself  as  a  volunteer  in  the 
ranks  of  his  countrymen.  We  have  already  observed, 
that  Tennyson  thought  very  highly  of  Maud;  but  none 


—     99     — 

of  his  poems  has  been  so  rigorously  judged  by  the 
reviews,  nor  has  it  ever  been  a  favourite  with  the 
English  public. 

Tennyson's  most  ambitious  poem,  the  Idylls  of  the 
King,  as  published  in  1859,  contains  four  books,  of 
which  the  first  three  are  entitled  Enid,  Vivien,  and 
Elaine,  the  names  of  three  ladies  at  King  Arthur's 
court,  the  companions,  or  favourite  attendants  of  Queen 
Guinevere.  The  last  book  is  devoted  to  the  Queen  herself. 
In  the  first  of  these  Idylls,  the  gentle  Enid,  daughter 
of  Earl  Yniol,  who  had  been  won  from  many  rivals 
and  wedded  by  Geraint,  Prince  of  Devon,  at  the  first 
report  of  Queen  Guinevere's  guilty  love  for  Lancelot 
du  Lake,  withdraws  with  her  husband  from  the  Court. 
Geraint,  who  loves  her  tenderly,  misinterpreting  some 
disconnected  words  that  had  fallen  from  her,  comes 
precipitately  to  the  conclusion  that  he  has  some  way 
or  other  lost  her  love,  and  being  desirous  of  convincing 
her  that  he  is  not  unworthy  of  it,  rides  forth  to  seek 
chivalrous  adventures,  taking  Enid  with  him.  On  this 
expedition  Enid's  fidelity  is  put  to  nearly  as  many  and 
as  cruel  tests  as  that  of  Chaucer's  patient  Griselda. 
At  length,  in  an  encounter  with  the  formidable  and 
gigantic  Earl  Doorm,  "the  Bull",  Geraint  is  struck 
bleeding  and  senseless  to  the  ground.  The  Earl,  who 
believes  him  to  be  dead,  struck  with  Enid's  beauty, 
as  she  sitting  weeping  beside  her  lord,  "propping  Ms 
head,  and  chafing  his  faint  hands",  vainly  invites  her 
to  eat  and  drink  with  him.  Nowise  dismayed  by  a  first 
repulse,  he  offers  her  his  hand  in  marriage,  and  when 
the  lady  refuses  him  point-blank,  he  commits  the  un- 
knightly  offence  of  smiting  her  on  the  cheek: 

Then  Enid,  in  her  utter  helplessness, 

And  since  she  tlioiight  he  had  not  dared  to  do  it, 

Except  he  surely  knew  my  lord  was  dead, 

Sent  forth  a  sudden  sharp  and  hitter  cry 

As  of  a  wild  thing  taken  in  a  trap. 

Geraint,  however,  has  recovered  from  his  swoon 
in  time  to  hear  the  Earl's  proposal,  and  witness  the 
insult;    and  starting    up  he   puts  an   end   to   Doorm's 


—     100    — 

matrimonial  projects  by  striking-  off  his  head  at  a  single 
blow.  Being  now  convinced  of  Enid's  continued  affection 
for  him,  he  leads  her  home  in  triumph,  and  they  enjoy 
all  imaginable  domestic  felicity,  till 

— he  crown'd 
A  happy  Hfe  with  a  fair  death,  and  fell 
Against  the  heathen  of  the  Northern  Sea 
In  battle,  fighting  for  the  blameless  King. 

Vivien,  the  heroine  of  the  second  Idjdl,  is  a  beautiful, 
but  worthless  woman,  who  by  the  power  of  her  personal 
charms  fascinates  the  great  enchanter  Merlin,  the  ideal 
representative  of  intellect  and  knowledge;  and  having 
drawn  from  him  the  secret  of  his  most  powerful  spells, 
seeks  an  opportunity  of  turning  them  against  himself. 
One  day,  when  she  is  conversing  with  him,  this  chance 
occurs.  A  thunderstorm  comes  on,  and 

— out  of  heaven  a  bolt 
(For  now  the  storm  was  close  above  them)  struck 
Furrowing  a  giant  oak,  and  javelining 
With  darted  spikes  and  splinters  of  the  wood 
The  dark  earth  round. 

,  The  fair,  though  ungrateful  sorceress,  now  employs 
a  sort  of  mesmerism  against  her  instructor  in  magic, 
for  we  are  told,  she 

—put  forth  the  charm 
Of  woven  paces  and  of  waving  hands; 

and  when  he  has  fallen  into  a  deep  sleep,  she  imprisons 
him  in  the  tree;  so  that 

In  the  hollow  oak  he  lay  as  dead. 

And  lost  to  life  and  use,  and  name  and  fame. 

How  many  Viviens,  since  the  days  of  Merlin,  have 
taken  the  most  gifted  and  the  most  distinguished  in 
their  toils,  the  history  of  nations  can  tell! 

The  subject  of  the  third  Idyll  is  the  unrequited 
love  of  Elaine  J  "the  lily  maid  of  Astolat"  for  Lancelot. 
She  first  sees  him  at  the  annual  tournament  in  Camelot, 
where  desiring  to  remain  unknown,  he  intrusts  his 
shield  to  her  care,  and  agrees,  in  return,  to  wear  her 


colours.  When  the  tournament  is  over,  King  Arthur 
returns  home,  and  relates  unsuspiciously  to  tlie  Queen 
how  Lancelot  had  worn 

—against  Ids  wont,  upon  his  lielm 
A  sleeve  of  scarlet,  broidered  with  great  pearls. 
Some  gentle  maiden's  gift. 

This  awakens  the  jealousy  of  Guinevere.  Turning, 
to  hide  her  emotion,  she 

Moved  to  her  cliamber,  and  there  flung  herself 
Down  on  the  great  king's  couch,  aiul  writhed  upon  it. 
And  clench'd  her  fingers  till  thej^  bit  the  palui, 
And  shriek'd  out  Traitor  to  the  unhearing  wall. 
Then  flasli'd  into  wild  tears,  and  rose  again, 
And  mov'd  about  her  palace,  proud  and  pale. 

Lancelot,  victorious  but  grievously  wounded,  has 
in  the  mean  time  been  watched  over  and  healed  by 
the  devoted  Elaine;  but  he  has  no  love  to  give  her, 
and  as  soon  as  he  feels  himself  strong  enough,  he  sets 
out  for  the  court,  to  lay  his  prizes  at  the  feet  of 
Queen  Guinevere.  This  breaks  Elaine's  heart;  and  on 
her  death-bed  she  desires  that  her  corpse,  dressed  in 
her  richest  robes,  should  be  placed  in  a  black  barge; 
and  rowed  down  the  river  to  the  palace  of  the  queen. 
Lancelot's  fidelity  to  Queen  Guinevere  is  ill  rewarded, 
for  she  rejects  his  peace-offering,  and  dismisses  him 
with  contumely. 

Then,  while  Sir  Lancelot  leant,  in  half  disgust 
At  love,  life,  all  things  on  the  window-ledge, 
Close  underneath  his  eyes,  and  right  across 
Where  these  had  fallen,  slowl}^  past  the  barge, 
Whereon  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat 
Lay  smiling,  like  a  star  in  blackest  night. 

Li  the  last  of  the  Idylls,  Guinevere's  guilt  has 
been  discovered.  Lancelot  has  withdrawn  from  the 
court;  and  the  Queen,  under  a  false  name,  has  taken 
refuge  with  the  nuns  of  Almesbury.  Arthur,  "the 
blameless  King",  imagines  at  first  that  she  has  fled 
with  Lancelot,  and,  after  appointing  Sir  Mordred  regent 
in  his  absence,  pursues  her  vainly,  but  finally  discovers 
where    she    is,    and   wends    his    way   thither;    not  to 


—     102    — 

reproach  her,  but  to  bid  her  farewell  for  ever.  Before 
he  reaches  the  convent,  he  learns  that  vSir  Mordred 
has  rebelled,  and  that  lie  must  collect  his  forces,  and 
march  against  the  traitor  forthwith.  It  is  with  a  presenti- 
ment that  he  is  going  to  his  last  of  fields  that  Arthur 
addresses  his  parting  words  to  Guinevere : 

Yet  think  not  that  I  come  to  urge  thy  crimes ; 
I  did  not  come  to  curse  thee,  Guinevere, 
I  whose  vast  pity  almost  makes  me  die 
To  see  thee  laying  there  thy  golden  head, 
My  pride  in  happier  summers,  at  my  feet. 

Lo!  I  forgive  thee,  as  Eternal  God 

Forgives:  do  thou  for  thine  own  soul  the  rest. 

But  how  to  take  last  leave  of  all  I  loved? 

0  golden  hair!  With  which  I  used  to  play 

Not  knowing!  0  imperial-moulded  form. 

And  beauty  such  as  woman  never  wore, 

Until  it  came  a  kingdom's  curse  with  thee. 

*  * 

* 

Perchance,  and  so  thou  purify  thy  soul, 

And  so  thou  lean  on  our  fair  father  Christ, 

"We  two  may  meet  before  high  God,  and  thou 

Wilt  spring  to  me,  and  claim  me  thine,  and  know 

1  am  thy  husband. 

The  order  in  which  Tennyson  has  taken  up  the 
Arthurian  legends  is  not  a  little  bewildering;  for  he 
began  with  the  end,  and  ended  with  the  middle:  but 
they  have  been  re-issued  by  the  publishers  in  their 
correct  chronological  order,  and  with  some  alterations 
in  the  titles.  In  their  completed  form,  they  now  stand 
as  follows:  the  Cominq  of  Arthur,  Gareth  and  Lynette, 
Geraint  and  Enid,  Merlin  and  Vivien,  Lancelot  and  Elaine, 
the  Holy  Grail,  Pelleas  and  Ettarre,  the  Last  Tournament, 
Guinevere,  the  Passing  of  Arthur.  Of  these,  the  Coming 
of  Arthur,  "the  approach  to  the  edifice",  as  it  has 
been  called,  relates  how  young  Arthur  came  to  the 
court  of  King  Leodogran,  where  he  so  greatly  distin- 
guished himself  in  every  knightly  accomplishment  that 
he  gained  the  heart  and  hand  of  the  King's  fair 
daughter,  Guinevere.  The  Holy  Grail  treats  of  the 
successful  quest    of  the    sacred  vessel,   out   of  which 


ord  had  eaten  tlie  Last  Supper  with  his  disciples, 
by  the  stainless  knight,  Sir  Galahad,  to  whom  and  the 
saintly  Sir  Percivale  it  is  exclusively  vouchsafed  to 
view  the  object  itself ;  while  the  less  iri-eproachable 
knights,  Sir  Lancelot  included,  have  to  withdraw  baf- 
fled from  the  enterprise.  It  is,  however,  a  nun  as  holy 
as  beautiful,  Sir  Percivale's  sister,  who  incites  Sir 
Galahad,  and  the  other  knights  of  the  Round  Table, 
to  undertake  the  quest,  by  her  relation  of  a  blessed 
vision  accorded  her  through  the  special  favour  of  Heaven. 
This  is  the  most  exquisite  passage  in  the  poem: 

Sweet  brother,  I  have  seen  the  Holy  Grail: 

For,  waked  at  dead  of  night,  I  heard  a  sound 

As  of  a  silver  horn  from  o'er  the  hills 

Blow]i,  and  I  thought—  "It  is  not  Arthur's  use 

'J'o  hunt  by  moonlight,"  and  the  slender  sound 

As  from  a  distance  beyond  distance  grew, 

Coming  upon  me.     Oh,  never  harp,  nor  horn, 

Nor  aught  wo  blow  with  breath,  or  touch  with  hand, 

Was  like  that  music  as  it  came;  and  then 

Stream'd  through  my  cell  a  cold  and  silver  beam, 

And  down  the  long  beam  stole  the  Holy  Grail, 

Kose-red,  with  beatings  in  it,  as  if  alive, 

Till  all  the  white  walls  of  my  cell  were  dyed 

With  rosy  colours  leaping  on  the  wall; 

And  then  the  music  faded,  and  the  Grail 

Pass'd  and  the  beam  decay'd,  and  from  the  walls 

The  rosy  quiverings  died  into  the  night. 

The  wiiole  tone  of  this  poem  is  austere  and  ascetic. 
Pelleas  and  Ettarre  is  a  trivial  episode.  Pelleas,  one 
of  those  who  received  the  honour  of  knighthood  to 
flU  up  the  gap  in  the  Round  Table  left  by  the  quest 
of  the  Holy  Grail,  when  on  his  way  to  Caerleon  meets 
wdth  Ettarre  in  the  forest,  and  chooses  her  as  the 
lady  of  his  love.  He  distinguishes  himself  in  the  Tourna- 
ment of  Youth;  but  after  a  time,  Sir  Gawain,  the 
"gay  Lothario"  of  Arthur's  court,  presents  himself  to 
Ettarre,  and  pretending  that  he  has  killed  Pelleas  in 
single  combat,  supplants  him  in  her  lavour.  The  lady, 
it  is  true,  on  discovering  the  deception,  experiences 
a  revulsion  of  feeling  in  favour  of  Pelleas,  but  the 
disgusted  knight  seeks  an   honourable   but  disastrous 


—     104     — 

encounter  with  Lancelot.  Thus  tlie  end  is  sad.  Still 
sadder  is  the  entire  tone  of  the  Last  Tournament,  which 
serves  to  prepare  us  for  the  coming  catastrophe.  The 
scene  is  the  royal  residence,  Camelot,  and  Lancelot 
presides  at  the  joustiugs,  the  King  having  undertaken 
an  expedition  to  punish  some  robbers  in  the  North. 
On  the  occasion  the  first  prizes  are  borne  away  by 
the  famous  Sir  Tristram  of  the  Woods,  who  had  married 
Isolt  the  White  in  Brittany,  and  was  now  on  his  last 
and  fateful  journey  to  behold  once  more  the  other 
Isolt,  the  lady  with  the  "black-blue  Irish  hair  and  Irish 
eyes",  whom  some  time  before  he  had  fetched  from 
Ireland  to  be  the  bride  of  his  jealous  uncle,  King 
Mark,  "in  lonely  Tintagil".  The  Passing  of  Arthur,  as 
may  be  guessed,  is  the  former  Morte  d' Arthur.  Gareth 
and  Lynetie  differs  in  many  respects  from  the  other 
Idylls,  and  the  character  of  the  heroine  is  as  peculiar 
as  her  personal  appearance  is  singular,  Gareth  was 
"the  last  tali  son  of  Lot  and  Bellicent",  and  consequently 
King  Arthur's  nephew,  for  his  mother,  Queen  Bellicent 
of  Orkney,  was  the  King's  half-sister.  His  aged  father 
having  sunk  into  second  childhood,  and  his  two  brothers 
being  at  Arthur's  Court,  his  mother  desired  to  keep 
Gareth  at  home,  in  spite  of  his  continual  entreaties 
to  be  allowed  to  join  his  brothers  in  Camelot.  Wearied 
at  last  with  his  importunity,  she  gives  a  reluctant 
consent,  but,  ho})ing  to  disgust  him  with  the  Court, 
makes  it  a  condition  that  he  shall  go  there  disguised 
as  a  peasant,  and  "serve  for  meats  and  drinks  among 
the  scullions  and  the  kitchen-knaves".  Gareth  accepts 
these  hard  conditions,  and  on  reaching  his  destination 
is  engaged  as  a  scullion  by  Sir  Kay,  the  seneschal 
of  the  palace,  but  he  soon  finds  an  opportunity  of 
making  himself  known  to  the  King,  who  secretly  dubs 
him  a  knight,  and  promises  him  the  first  quest.  On 
this  he  has  not  long  to  wait,  for 

That  same  clay  there  past  into  the  hall 
A  damsel  of  hii?,h  lineao;e,  and  a  brow 
May-blossom,  and  a  cheek  of  apple-blossom, 
Hawk-eyes;  and  lig:litly  was  her  slender-nose 
Tip-tilted  like  the  petal  of  a  flower. 


—     105     — 

The  young-  lad}%  who  announces  herself  as  Lj-nette, 
has  come  to  crave  the  aid  of  the  brave  Sir  Lancelot 
for  the  rescue  of  her  sister,  the  Lad}^  Lyonors,  just 
then  besieged  by  certain  ruffian  knights  in  C'astle  Peri- 
lous. Gareth  reminds  the  King  of  his  promise,  and  to 
the  great  disgust  of  Sir  Kay,  demands  the  quest: 

"Yea,  King,  thoii  knowest  thy  kitchen  knave  am  I, 

"And  mighty  thro'  thy  meats  and  drinks  am  I, 

"And  I  can  topple  over  a  hundred  such. 

"Thy  promise,  King;"  and  Arthur,  glancing  at  him, 

Brought   doAvn  a  momentaiy  broAV.     "Rough,   sudden, 

"And  pardonable,  worthy  to  be  knight — 

"Go,  therefore,"  and  all  hearers  were  amazed. 

Gareth  looses  his  cloak,  and  reveals  himself  fully 
equipped  as  a  knight.  A  horse  alone  is  wanting,  and 
this  he  obtains  from  Lancelot.  But  Lynette  feels  her- 
self at  first  disappointed  and  insulted,  when  Gareth 
presents  himself  to  her  as  her  champion: 

She  thereat,  as  one 
That  smells  a  foul-flesh' d  agaric  in  the  holt, 
And  deems  it  carrion  of  some  woodland  thing, 
Or  shrew,  or  weasel,  nipt  her  slender  nose 
With  petulant  thumb  and  finger,  shrilling  "Hence! 
Avoid,  thou  smellest  all  of  kitchen  grease." 

As  Sir  Gareth,  however,  successively  conquers  the 
three  hostile  knights,  who  call  themselves  respectively 
"the  Morning  Star",  "the  Sun",  and  "the  Evening 
Star",  she  confesses  that  the  smell  of  the  kitchen 
grows  more  faint;  her  heart  melts,  and  she  sings: 

0  morning  star,  that  smilest  in  the  blue, 
0  star,  my  morning  dream  hath  proven  true, 
Smile  sweetly,  thou!  my  love  hath  smiled  on  me. 

0  sun,  that  wakenest  all  to  bliss  or  pain; 

0  moon,  that  layest  all  to  sleep  again, 

Shine  sweetly;  twice  my  love  hath  smiled  on  me. 

0  dewy  flowers  that  open  to  the  sun, 

0  dewy  flowers  that  close  when  day  is  done, 

Blow  sweetly;  twice  my  love  hath  smiled  on  me. 


—     106     — 

0  birds  that  warble  to  the  morning  sky, 
0  birds  that  warble  as  the  day  goes  by, 
Sing  sweetly;  twice  my  love  hath  smiled  on  me. 

0  trefoil,  sparkling  on  the  rainy  plain, 

0  rainbow,  with  three  colours  after  rain, 

Shine  sweetly;  thrice  my  love  liath  smiled  on  me. 

At  the  conclusion,  we  learn  that  Gareth,  according 
to  some,  married  the  Lady  Lyonors,  but  according  to 
others,  who  seem  better  informed,  his  bride  was  Lynette. 

The  Idylls  of  the  King,  with  all  their  merits,  are 
somewhat  too  long  and  diifuse,  and  we  cannot  help 
thinking  that  the  poem  would  have  gained,  as  a  whole, 
by  the  omission  of  some  of  the  less  interesting  episodes. 
We  have  still  to  say  something  about  another  poem, 
to  which  no  such  objections  can  be  made.  We  mean 
Enoch  Arden;  which,  as  the  Quarterly  Review  observes, 
"bears  evident  marks  of  being  a  cherished  work,  per- 
fected by  untiring  and  affectionate  care."  It  is  a  simple 
story.  The  hero,  "a  rough  sailor's  lad",  the  miller's 
son  Philip  Ray,  and  Annie  Lee,  were  playmates  in 
childhood;  and  Annie  was  "little  wife"  to  both  the 
boys;  but  in  maturer  years,  when  Annie  had  to  make 
a  <ihoice,  she  gave  her  hand  to  Enoch.  For  some  years 
all  went  well,  but  then  came  unforeseen  misfortunes, 
and  Enoch,  first  a  fishennan  but  in  time  a  skilful  sai- 
lor, was  induced  to  embark  as  boatswain  aboard  a  ship 
"China-board."  The  voyage  out  Avas  prosperous,  but 
the  ship  when  homewards  bound  was  wrecked  on 
a  rocky  island,  and  only  three  of  the  crew,  including 
Enoch,  escaped  to  land.  The  island  was  beautiful  and 
fruitful,  but  one  of  the  survivors,  who  had  been  hurt 
in  the  shipwreck,  soon  after  died,  another  "fell  sun- 
stricken",  and  Arden  was  left  alone.  Here  he  passed 
many  years  in  solitude,  while  all  at  home  supposed 
him  to  have  perished  with  the  ship.  Of  that  tropical 
paradise,  and  Enoch's  life  tliere,  we  have  the  following 
exquisite  description : 

The  mountain  wooded  to  the  peak,  the  la-wois 
And  winding  glades  liigh  up  like  ways  to  Heaven, 
The  slender  coco's  drooping  crown  of  plumes, 
The  lightning  flash  of  insect  and  of  bird, 


—     107     — 

The  lustre  of  the  hmg-  convolvuhises 

That  coilM  arouiHl  the  stately  stems,  and  ran 

Ev'ii  to  the  limit  of  the  laud,  the  glows 

And  glories  of  the  hroad  helt  of  the  world. 

All  these  he  saw;  hut  Avliat  l)e  fain  had  seen 

He  could  not  see,  the  kindly  liuman  face, 

Nor  ever  liear  a  kindly  voice,  but  heard 

The  myriad  shriek  of  wheeling  ocean-fowl, 

The  league-long  roller  tlumdering  on  the  reef, 

The  moving  wliisper  of  huge  ti-ees  that  branch'd 

And  hlossomM  in  the  zenith,  or  the  sweep 

Of  some  precipitous  rivulet  to  the  wave. 

As  down  the  shore  he  ranged,  or  all  day  long 

Sat  often  in  the  seaward-gazing  gorge, 

A  shipwreck'd  sailor,  waiting-  for  a  sail: 

No  sail  from  day  to  day,  hut  every  day 

The  sunrise  broken  into  scarlet  shafts 

Among-  the  palms  and  ferns  and  precipices; 

The  blaze  upon  the  waters  to  the  east; 

The  blaze  upon  his  island  overhead; 

The  blaze  upon  the  waters  to  the  west; 

Then  the  great  stars  that  globed  themselves  in  Heaven, 

The  hoUower-bellowing  ocean,  and  again 

The  scarlet  shafts  of  sunrise —  but  no  sail! 

A  ship  at  last  touclies  at  the  island,  and  the  wedded 
wanderer  is  enabled,  after  many  years'  absence,  to 
return  to  his  native  land  and  his  native  place.  He  first 
seeks  a  tavern  he  had  known  of  old,  kept  by  an  old 
woman  called  Miriam  Lane,  who  does  not  recognise  him, 
but  in  reply  to  his  inquiries,  tells  him  how  Enoch  Arden 
was  lost  at  sea,  liow  Annie  had  bravely  battled  with 

—her  growhig  poverty, 

How  Philip  put  her  little  ones  to  school, 

And  kept  them  in  it; 

and  then  proceeds  to  recount 

—his  long  wooing  her, 
Her  slow  consent  and  marriage,  and  the  birth 
Of  Philip's  child. 

Enoch  Arden  with  a  strong*  effort  suppresses  his 
feelings;  he  directs  his  steps  to  Philip's  house;  conceals 
liimself  behind  a  yew-tree  in  the  small  garden,  and  sees 
the  happy  family  seated  at  the  hearth: 

Philip,  the  slighted  suitor  of  old  times, 
Stout,  rosy,  with  his  babe  across  his  knees; 
And  o'er  her  second  father  stoopt  a  girl, 
A  later  but  a  loftier  Annie  Lee, 


—     108     — 

Fair-hair'd  and  tall,  and  from  lier  lifted  hand 
Dangled  a  length  of  ribbon  and  a  ring 
To  tempt  the  babe,  who  rearVi  his  creasy  anns, 
Caught  it  and  ever  miss'd  it,  and  they  langh'd: 
And  on  the  left  side  of  the  heartli  he  saw 
The  mother  glancing  often  toward  lier  babe. 

At  this  sight,  tlie  returned  sailor  feels  what  misery 
his  re-appearance  must  cause  these  dear  ones ;  and  he 
nobly  resolves  to  sacrifice  himself;  to  withdraw  unseen, 
and  to  live  alone  and  unknown  for  the  brief  space  of 
time  he  may  still  linger  on  earth,  with  his  broken  heart 
and  shattered  frame. 

He  therefore  turning  softly  like  a  thief, 
Lest  the  harsh  shingle  should  grate  underfoot. 
And  feeling  all  along  the  garden-wall, 
Lest  he  should  swoon,  and  tumble,  and  be  found, 
Crept  to  the  gate,  and  open'd  it,  and  closed. 
As  lightly  as  a  sick  man's  chamlser-door, 
Behind  him,  and  came  out  upon  the  waste. 
*  * 

He  was  not  all  unhappy.     His  resolve 
Upbore  him,  and  firm  faith,  and  evennore 
Prayer  from  a  living  source  within  the  will. 
And  beating  up  thro'  all  the  bitter  world. 
Like  fountains  of  sweet  water  in  the  sea, 
Kept  him  a  living  soul. 

He  iinds  employment,  for  "almost  to  all  things  he 
could  turn  his  hand",  but  it  was  "work  without  hope" ; 
and  when  a  year  has  slowly  passed  away 

—  a  languor  came 
Upon  him,  gentle  sickness,  gradually 
Weakening  the  man  till  he  could  do  no  more. 
But  kept  the  house,  his  chair,  and  last  his  bed. 

And  thus  he  dies,  after  revealing  his  secret  to 
Miriam  Lane,  and  blessing  his  wife,  his  children,  and 
Philip. 

Whatever  may  be  the  defects  of  Tennyson's  earlier 
poetry,  however  insipidly  sweet  the  stanzas  addressed 
to  the  Adelin(^s,  Isabels,  Lilians,  or  Claribels,  no  candid 
critic  will  deny  the  power  and  vigour  of  his  later 
productions.  Even  among  these  earlier  efforts,  which  have 


^ 


--     109     — 

been  sneeringly  styled  "mere  drawing-room  verses",  we 
may  find  some  short  poems,  like  that  here  subjoined, 
which  proved  that  a  new  poet  of  no  ordinary  rank 
liad  arisen  in  England. 

LADY  CLARA  VERE  I)E  VERE. 

Ladj'  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

Of  me  you  shall  not  win  renown: 
You  thought  to  break  a  country  heart 

For  pastime,  ere  you  went  to  town. 
At  me  you  smiled,  but  unbeg'uiled 

I  saw  the  snare,  and  1  i-etired: 
The  daughter  of  a  hundred  Earls, 

You  are  not  one  to  be  desired. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

I  know  you  proud  to  bear  your  name. 
Your  pride  is  yet  no  mate  for  mine, 

Too  proud  to  care  from  whence  I  came. 
Nor  would  I  break  for  your  sweet  sake 

A  heart  that  doats  on  truer  charms. 
A  simple  maiden  in  her  flow^er 

Is  worth  a  hundred  coats  of  arms. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

Some  meeker  pupil  you  must  find. 
For  w^ere  you  queen  of  all  that  is, 

I  could  not  stoop  to  such  a  mind. 
You  sought  to  prove  how  I  could  love, 

And  my  disdain  is  my  reply. 
The  lion  on  your  old  stone  gates 

Is  not  more  cold  to  you  than  I. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

You  put  strange  memories  in  my  head. 
Not  thrice  your  branching  limes  have  blown 

Since  I  beheld  your  Laurence  dead. 
Oh,  your  sw^eet  eyes,  your  low  replies: 

A  great  enchantress  you  may  be, 
But  there  was  that  across  his  throat 

Which  you  had  hardly  cared  to  see. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere 

When  thus  he  met  his  mother's  view, 
She  had  the  passions  of  her  kind, 

She  spoke  some  certain  truths  of  you 
Indeed  I  heard  one  bitter  word 

That  scarce  is  fit  for  you  to  hear: 
Her  manners  had  not  that  repose 

Which  stamps  the  caste  of  Vere  de  Vere. 


—     110     — 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

There  stands  a  spectre  in  your  hall: 
The  guilt  of  blood  is  at  your  door; 

You  changed  a  wholesome  heart  to  gall. 
You  held  your  course  without  remorse 

To  make  him  trust  his  modest  worth, 
And,  last,  you  lix'd  a  vacant  stare, 

And  slew  him  with  your  noble  birth. 

Tnist  me,  Clara  Vere  de  Yere. 

From  yon  blue  lieavens  above  us  bent 
The  grand  old  gardener  and  his  wife 

Smile  at  the  claims  of  long  descent. 
Howe'er  it  be,  it  seems  to  me 

'Tis  only  noble  to  be  good. 
Kind  hearts  are  more  than  coronets. 

And  simple  faith  than  Norman  blood. 

I  know  you,  Clara  Yere  de  Yere, 

You  pine  among  your  halls  and  towers: 
The  languid  light  of  your  proud  eyes 

Is  wearied  of  tlie  rolling  hours. 
In  glowing  health,  with  boundless  wealth. 

But  sickening  of  a  vague  disease 
You  know  so  ill  to  deal  with  time. 

You  needs  must  play  such  pranks  as  these. 

Clara,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere. 

If  time  be  heavy  on  your  hands 
Are  there  no  beggars  at  your  gate, 

Nor  any  poor  about  your  lands? 
Oh!  teach  the  orphan-boy  to  read. 

Or  teach  the  orphan-girl  to  sew 
Pray  Heaven  for  a  Imman  heart, 

And  let  the  foolish  yeoman  go. 

In  1884,  Tennyson  was  raised  to  tlie  peerage,  with 
the  title  of  13aTon,  so  that  now  he  is  generally  spoken 
of  as  Lord  Tennyson.  We  shall  conclnde  onr  notice 
of  the  poet  and  his  writings  by  quoting  his  spirited 
lines:  the  Charcje  of  the  Light  Brigade.  During  the 
Crimean  war,  tlie  Russians  attempted,  on  the  morning 
of  Oct.  25,  1854.  to  surprise  the  British  position  in 
front  of  Balaclava,  by  descending  in  great  force,  from 
north  to  south,  the  valley  between  the  Causeway 
Heights  and  the  Fedioukine  Hills.  On  the  first-named 
heights  were  three  redoubts,  occupied  by  Turkish  troops, 


—   Ill   — 

who  after  a  feeble  resistance  fled,  leaving  the  redonbts 
in  the  hands  of  the  Russians,  so  that  the  latter,  hold- 
ing as  they  did  the  opposite  Fedioukine  Hills,  and 
having  established  a  twelve-gun  battery  about  an  Eng- 
lish mile  and  a  (juarter  to  the  north  of  the  British 
position,  commanded  the  valley  on  both  sides,  and  swept 
it  from  north  to  south  with  their  artillery.  The  further 
advance  of  the  Russians  was  checked  by  the /firmness 
of  the  93  I'd  Highlanders,  and  a  charge  of  the  Heavy 
Brigade  under  Brigadier-genernl  Scarlett.  In  the  after- 
noon of  the  same  day.  Lord  Lucan,  who  commanded 
the  Light  Brigade,  received  orders  from  the  com- 
mander-in-chief. Lord  Raglan,  to  aid  in  the  recovery 
of  the  guns  abandoned  by  the  Turks,  but  unfortu- 
nately he  misinterpreted  the  order,  and  conceived  that 
he  was  to  attempt  to  take  the  Russian  batteries  at 
the  north  end  of  the  valley.  Lord  Cardigan,  the  second 
in  command,  was  accordingly  dispatched,  with  the  six 
hundred  horsemen  of  the  Light  Brigade,  on  this  desperate 
errand.  The  small  British  troop  reached  and  took  the 
Russian  battery,  sabring  the  artillerymen  at  tlieir 
guns,  and  then  cut  their  way  through  a  great  body  of 
Russian  cavalry ;  but  being  unable  to  retain  the  position 
they  had  so  valiantly  won,  they  were  forced  to  retreat. 
Only  198  men  returned,  and  these  were  rescued  by 
the  Heavy  Brigade.  It  was  a  most  daring  and  brilliant 
exploit,  but  a  useless  sacrifice  of  life. 

THE  CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE. 

Half  a  league,  half  a  league, 

Half  a  league  onward, 
All  in  the  valley  of  Death 

Eode  the  six  hundred. 
"Forward,  the  Light  Brigade! 
^Charge  for  the  guns!"  he  said: 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

"Forward,  the  Light  Brigade!" 
Was  there  a  man  dismay'd? 
Not  tho'  the  soldier  knew 
Some  one  had  blunder'd: 


—     112     — 

Theirs  not  to  make  reply, 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why, 
Theirs  but  to  do  and  die, 
Into  tlie  valley  of  Death 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them. 
Cannon  to  left  of  them 
Cannon  in  front  of  them 

Volley'd  and  thunder'd; 
Storm'd  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well, 
Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Into  the  mouth  of  Hell 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Flashed  all  their  sabres  bare. 
Flashed  as  they  turn'd  in  air. 
Sabring  the  gunners  there, 
Charging  an  army,  while 

All  the  world  wonder'd: 
Plunged  in  the  battery-smoke 
Right  thro'  the  line  they  broke; 

Cossack  and  Russian 
Reel'd  from  the  sabre-stroke 

Shattered  and  sunder'd. 
Then  they  rode  back,  but  not 

Not  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  behind  them 

Volley'd  and  thunder'd; 
Storm'd  at  Avith  shot  and  shell, 
While  horse  and  hero  fell, 
They  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  through  the  jaws  of  Death 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  Hell, 
All  that  was  left  of  them. 

Left  of  six  hundred. 

When  can  their  glory  fade? 
Oh,  the  wild  charge  they  made! 

All  the  world  wonder'd. 
Honour  the  charge  they  made! 
Honour  the  Light  Brigade, 

Noble  six  hundred! 


113 


Robert  Browning. 

Notwithstanding'  his  eccentricity  and  so  frequent 
obscurity,  it  cannot  be  disputed,  that  Robert  Browning 
is  a  man  of  high  poetical  genius,  as  well  as  of  extensive 
though  curious  and  out-of-the-way  learning.  The  ob- 
scurity with  which  he  is  so  often  reproached  belongs 
partly  to  his  subjects  themselves,  and  partly  to  his 
mode  of  treating  them.  He  loves  to  explore  the  dark 
nooks  of  history,  to  dive  into  long-forgotten  books,  and 
then  to  contemplate  whatever  he  has  brought  to  light 
from  a  standpoint  on  which  no  man  but  himself  w^ould 
have  fixed.  Some  twenty  years  ago  Browning  said  of 
himself  that  the  ^^Titer  and  the  reader  of  his  books 
were  one  and  the  same;  that  he  himself  was  all  the 
public  he  had:  but  of  late  years  a  reaction  has  taken 
place ;  a  considerable  party  have  thrown  oif  their  alle- 
giance to  Tennyson,  and  declare,  that  if  we  can  only 
understand  Browning,  we  must  acknowledge  him  to  be 
the  greatest  poet  and  deepest  thinker  of  the  present  day. 

Robert  Browning  was  born  in  1812;  and  his  first 
poetical  work  Paracelsus  appeared  in  1836.  In  1837 
he  produced  a  tragedy,  Strafford,  and  in  1843  the  Blot 
on  the  Scutcheon,  both  of  which  failed,  in  spite  of  all 
the  etforts  of  the  great  actor  Macready.  In  1840  he 
produced  Sordello;  in  1846  Bells  and  Pomegranates,  a 
collection  of  short  poems  on  various  subjects:  in  1850 
Christmas  Eve  and  Easter  Day;  in  1855  Men  and  Women, 
a  series  of  poems  mostly  descriptive  of  Italian  scenery 
and  Italian  manners;  in  1864  his  Dramatis  Personae; 
and  in  1869,  in  four  volumes,  the  Ring  and  the  Book, 
his  longest  poem.  In  1871  appeared  Prince  Hohenstiel- 
SchwangaUj  Saviour  of  Society,  and  in  1872  Fifine  at 
the  Fair. 

The  subject  of  the  first-named  poem  is  the  liistory 
of  the  German-Swiss  physician  and  alchemist,  Paracelsus 
Theophrastus  Bombastus  von  Hohenheim  (1493 — 1541). 
Browning  makes  of  him  a  visionary,  aspiring  to  arrive 
at  a  knowledge  of  the  principle  of  life,  one  who 
sacrifices  love  and  all  the  charms  of  existence  to  the 


—     114     — 

ambition  of  becoming,  by  dint  of  learning  and  research, 
"the  greatest  and  most  glorious  man  on  earth."  After 
nine  years  of  labour,  study  and  unfulfilled  dreams,  he 
meets  with  the  poet  Aprile,  who  on  his  side  aspires  to 
love  "infinitely  and  be  loved."  By  his  intercourse  with 
this  man  Paracelsus  comes  to  understand  that  know- 
ledge, to  be  perfect,  must  be  combined  with  love  for 
the  human  race.  Eenouncing  his  solitary  life,  he  resolves 
to  teach  others  what  he  has  himself  learned,  becomes 
a  professor  at  Basel,  and  for  a  time  attracts  crowds 
of  auditors.  But  he  dies  at  last  with  the  conviction, 
that  his  life  has  been  purposeless,  because  he  had  not 
understood  that  love  should  precede  power.  The  follow- 
ing lines  on  lost  love  are  perhaps  the  finest  in  the 
poem: 

'Tis  only  when  they  spring  to  Heaven,  that  angels 
Reveal  themselves  to  you;  they  sit  all  day 
Beside  you,  and  lie  down  at  night  by  you. 
Who  care  not  for  their  presence.    Muse  or  sleep, 
And  all  at  once  they  leave  you.  and  you  know  them. 
We  are  so  fool'd  and  cheated! 

Paracelsus  is  altogether  made  up  of  long  discussions 
between  the  philosopher  and  his  friend  Festus  or  the 
poet  Aprile;  and  we  find  him  successively  at  Wurz- 
burg,  Constantinople,  Basel,  Colmar,  and  finally  in  the 
Hospital  of  St.  Sebastian  at  Salzburg,  where  he  is 
attended  in  his  last  moments  by  the  two  faithful  friends, 
by  whom  alone  he  has  been  understood  and  appreciated. 

One  of  Browning's  best  known,  though  least  popular 
poems,  is  Bishop  Blougram.  The  Bishop  is  a  sceptic, 
but  produces  very  plausible  reasons  for  continuing  to 
hold  his  bishopric.  He  shows  that  he  cannot  be  accused 
of  inconsistency;  for  he  has  made  it  a  rule  through 
life  to  consult  only  his  own  interest.  Browning's  grim 
irony  can  hardly  compensate  for  the  disgust  with 
which  the  Bisliop  inspires  us.  The  short  poem,  Caliban 
upon  Setebos,  suggested  by  a  passage  in  Shakespeare's 
Tempest  : 

1  must  obey:  his  art  is  of  such  powei", 
It  would  control  my  dam's  god.  Setebos, 
And  make  a  vassal  of  him. 


—     115     — 

is  the  soliloquy  of  a  savage  on  the  Supreme  Being, 
and  is  designed  to  show  how  prone  men  have  been, 
at  all  times,  to  clothe  the  Deity  with  human  attributes. 
Sordello  is  the  biography  of  an  ambitious  Italian  poet, 
who,  esteeming  of  no  value  the  reputation  he  has  al- 
ready gained,  seeks  for  a  more  extended  influence  over 
his  fellow-men  for  their  own  good.  This  poem  has  been 
denounced,  by  most  of  the  critical  authorities,  as  absurd 
and  unintelligible ;  and  in  the  most  favourable  criticism 
we  have  seen,  it  is  coldly  described  as  "a  strange  freak 
of  the  creative  will,  which  probably  no  jnan  or  woman, 
except  the  author,  ever  understood." 

As  to  the  long  poem  in  four  volumes,  the  Ring 
and  the  Book,  it  is  hard  to  give  even  a  faint  idea  of 
what  is  so  diverse.  "It  seems",  says  an  enthusiastic 
reviewer,  "to  contain  everything  —  the  buried  wisdom 
of  the  ancient  world,  and  the  bright  but  evanescent 
brilliancy  of  the  intellectual  world  of  the  present  day." 
The  Ring  symbolises  the  main  lesson  of  the  poem  — 
that  evidence  is  very  difficult  to  sift,  and  that  hasty 
judgments  on  current  events  are  oftener  wrong  than 
right.  The  Book,  which  the  author  is  supposed  to  have 
picked  up  on  a  Florence  book-stall,  contains  the  record 
of  a  Roman  murder  case.  Divested  of  all  irrelevant 
matter,  this  case  of  Count  Guido  Franceschini  is  but 
a  meagre  story,  and  we  are  apt  to  wince  with  im- 
patience when  we  find  it  told  over,  in  the  course  of 
the  poem,  no  less  than  twelve  times  by  different  persons. 

If  the  reader  inquires,  to  which  of  his  poems 
Mr.  Browning  owes  that  limited  measure  of  popularity 
which  he  enjoys,  we  shall  answer,  to  a  certain  number 
of  his  simpler  and  least  pretentious  productions,  in 
which  he  shows  that  he  can  sometimes  write  intelligibly. 
One  of  these  is  called:  Pippa  passes,  and  tells  us  how 
the  fresh  voice  of  an  innocent  young  girl,  a  worker  in 
the  silk-mills  of  Asolo,  in  the  Trevisan,  who  w^anders 
through  the  streets  singing  her  holiday  songs,  awakens 
the  slumbering  conscience  of  the  wicked,  infuses  into 
the  artist  nobler  aspirations,  warms  the  heart  of  the 
patriot,   and  brings  the  blush   of  shame  to   the  cheek 


—     116     — 

of  the  impure.  All  this,  too,  is  eifected  by  such  simple 
strains  as: 

The  year's  at  the  spriug, 
And  day's  at  the  morn. 
Morning's  at  seven; 
The  hill-sides  dew-pearled, 
The  lark's  on  the  wing. 
The  snail's  on  tlie  thorn; 
God's  in  his  heaven — 
All's  right  with  his  world! 

Pippa  Passes  is  called  a  drama  by  the  author;  and, 
being  divided  into  scenes,  it  is  at  least  dramatic  in 
form.     Some  of  scenes  are  in  prose. 

Most  of  Browning's  Dramatic  Lyrics  sound  some- 
what rough  and  harsh.  One  of  the  best  is  that  in  which 
the  dying  voluptuary,  the  Bishop  of  St.  Praxed,  orders 
for  himself  a  tomb  of  purest  jasper  in  St.  Praxed's 
church,  glorying  in  the  idea  of  outshining,  even  in 
death,  his  old  rival  Gandolf,  who  lies  in  "his  paltry 
onion  stone",  with  its  inscription  in  bad  Latin.  His 
virtues  are  to  be  recorded  in  "choice  Latin,  picked 
phrase,  TuUy's  every  word";  and  here  he  will 

—  lie  through  centuries, 
And  hear  the  blessed  mutter  of  the  mass. 

Very  similar  to  this  poem  is  the  Soliloquy  of ,  the 
Spanish  Cloister,  in  wliich  a  monk  relates  how  heartily  he 
abhors  Brother  Lawrence.  In  a  Gondola  is  a  serenade, 
followed  by  a  dialogue  between  two  lovers,  which  is 
abruptly  terminated  by  the  assassination  of  the  sere- 
nader  by  a  jealous  rival.  But  among  all  Browning's 
minor  poems,  the  most  interesting  to  the  German  reader 
will  probably  be  the  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelinj  founded 
on  the  old  familiar  legend.  The  poet  begins  by  telling 
us  how  the  good  burghers  of  Hameln  (or  Hamelin,  as 
he  writes  it)  were  plagued  by  the  destructive  rodents: 

Rats! 
They  fought  the  dogs  and  killed  the  cats, 
And  bit  the  babies  in  the  cradles. 
And  ate  the  cheeses  out  of  the  vats, 
And  licked  the  soup  from  the  cooks'  own  ladles, 
Split  open  the  kegs  of  salted  sprats, 


—     117     — 

Made  nests  inside  men's  Sunday  hats, 
And  even  spoiled  the  women's  chats, 
By  drowning  their  speaking 
With  shrieking  and  squeaking, 
In  fifty  different  sharps  and  iiats. 

But  a  fiiend  in  need  is  at  hand;  the  Pied  Piper 
appears  on  the  scene,  and  introduces  himself  to  the 
municipal  authorities,  assembled  in  grave  consultation 
in  the  Town-hall: 

He  advanced  to  the  council-table: 

And,  "Please  your  honours,"  said  he,  "I'm  able 

"By  means  of  a  secret  charm  to  draw 

''AH  creatures  living  beneath  the  sun, 

"That  creep,  or  swim,  or  fly,  or  run, 

"After  me  so  as  you  never  saw! 

"And  I  chiefly  use  my  charm 

"On  creatures  that  do  people  hann  — 

"The  mole,  and  toad,  and  newt,  and  viper: 

"And  people  call  me  the  Pied  Piper." 

And  here  they  noticed  around  his  neck 

A  scarf  of  red  and  yellow  stripe, 

To  match  with  his  coat  of  tlie  self-same  cheque; 

And  at  the  scarfs  end  hung  a  pipe. 

The  Piper  offers  to  clear  the  town  of  its  unbidden 
guests,  for  the  consideration  of  one  thousand  guilders. 
The  mayor  and  aldermen  jump  at  the  offer,  and  the 
Piper  goes  to  work  forthwith: 

Into  the  street  the  Piper  stept. 

Smiling  first  a  little  smile, 
As  if  he  knew  what  magic  slept 

In  his  quiet  pipe  the  while; 
Then,  like  a  musical  adept, 
To  blow  the  pipe  his  lips  he  wrinkled, 
And  green  and  blue  his  sharp  eyes  twinkled. 
Like  a  candle  flame  where  salt  is  sprinkled; 
And  ere  three  shrill  notes  the  pipe  had  uttered, 
You  heard  as  if  an  army  nmttered; 
And  the  muttering  grew  to  a  grumbling; 
And  the  grumbling  grew  to  a  mighty  rumbling; 
And  out  of  the  houses  the  rats  came  tumbling. 
Great  rats,  small  rats,  lean  rats,  brawny  rats, 
Brown  rats,  black  rats,  gray  rats,  tawny  rats, 
Grave  old  plodders,  gay  young  friskers. 

Fathers,  mothers,  uncles,  cousins. 
Cocking  tails  and  pricking  whiskers, 

Families  by  tens  and  dozens, 


—     118     — 

Brothers,  sisters,  husbands,  wives  — 

Followed  the  Piper  for  their  lives. 

From  street  to  street  he  piped  advancing-, 

And  step  for  step  they  followed  dancing, 

Until  they  came  to  the  river  Weser, 

Wherein  all  plunged  and  perished  — 

Save  one,  who,  stout  as  Julius  Caesar, 

Swam  across,  and  lived  to  carry 

(As  he  the  manuscript  he  cherished) 

To  Rat-land  home  his  commentary; 

Which  was :  —  At  the  first  shrill  notes  of  the  pipe, 

I  heard  a  sound  as  of  scraping  tripe, 

And  putting  apples,  wondrous  ripe, 

Into  a  cider-press's  gripe: 

And  a  moving  away  of  pickle  tub-boards. 

And  a  leaving  ajar  of  conserve  cupboards 

And  a  drawing  the  corks  of  train-oil  flasks. 

And  a  breaking  the  hoops  of  butter  casks. 

And  it  seemed  as  if  a  voice 

(Sweeter  far  than  by  harp  or  by  psaltery 

Is  breathed)  called  out:  0  rats  rejoice! 

The  world  is  grown  to  one  vast  drysaltery! 

So  munch  on,  crunch  on,  take  your  nuncheon. 

Breakfast,  supper,  dinner,  luncheon! 

And,  just  as  a  bulky  sugar-puncheon, 

All  ready  staved,  like  a  great  sun  shone 

Glorious  scarce  an  inch  before  me, 

Just  as  methought  it  said :  Come,  bore  me !  — 

I  found  the  Weser  rolling  o'er  me! 

But,  when  the  service  was  rendered,  and  the  rats 
all  drowned,  the  conscript  fathers  of  Hameln  began 
to  think  that  one  thousand  guilders  was  really  too 
much  for  such  light  Avork  as  this  appeared  to  be,  and 
they  offered  the  piper  fifty;  a  remuneration  which  he 
declined  to  accept.  Finding  they  were  quite  resolved 
to  break  their  faith  with  him, 

Once  more  he  stept  into  the  street, 

And  to  his  lips  again 

Laid  his  long  pipe  of  smooth  straight  cane; 

And  ere  he  blew  three  notes  (such  sweet 

Soft  notes  as  yet  musician's  cunning 

Never  gave  the  enraptured  air), 

There  was  a  rustling  that  seemed  like  a  bustling 

()f  merry  crowds  justling  at  pitching  and  hustling. 

Small  feet  were  pattering,  wooden  shoes  clattering, 

Little  hands  clapping,  and  little  tongues  chattering. 


—     IIU 

Ami,  like  fowls  iii  a  farm-yard  when  barley  is  scattering, 

Out  came  the  children  running. 

All  the  little  hoys  and  girls 

With  rosy  cheeks  and  flaxen  curls, 

And  sparkling  eyes  and  teeth  like  pearls, 

Tripping  and  skipping,  ran  merrily  after 

The  wonderful  music  with  shouting  and  laughter. 

The  procession  marclies  directly  towards  the  "Koppel- 
ber«>-  Hill,"  and  the  burghers  laugh  in  their  sleeve  at 
the  simplicity  of  the  Piper,  to  think  that  a  troop,  which 
included  so  many  very  young  children,  could  climb  the 
mountain.  Congxatulating  themselves  on  getting  rid  so 
cheaply  of  an  importunate  creditor,  they  every  moment 
expect  to  see  the  children,  who  in  the  mean  time  have 
reached  the  foot  of  the  hill,  pause  in  their  march  and 
turn  their  faces  homewards, 

When  lo,  as  they  reached  the  mountain's  side, 

A  wondrous  portal  opened  wide, 

As  if  a  cavern  was  suddenly  hollowed; 

And  the  Piper  advanced,  and  the  children  followed. 

And  when  all  were  in,  to  the  very  last, 

The  door  in  the  mountain-side  shut  fast. 

In  the  poem,  Prince  Hohenstiel-Schwangau^  we  have 
a  ''Saviour  of  Society"  in  the  style  of  the  late  Emperor 
of  the  French.  Though  not  published  till  1871,  there 
is  internal  evidence  that  it  was  written  soon  after  the 
Italian  war  of  1859,  and  before  the  decline  of  the 
Second  Empire  had  began.  "The  poem,"  observes  the 
Spectator,  "is  not  in  any  sense  a  portrait,  real  or 
ideal,  of  the  personality  of  the  Carbonaro-Conservative, 
the  Imperial  adventurer,  the  star-ruled  gambler,  the 
superstitious  sceptic,  the  enthusiastic  cynic,  though  for 
this  we  had  ventured  to  hope ;  it  is  solely  an  exposition 
of  the  public  motives,  good,  bad,  and  ambiguous  —  clear, 
questionable,  and  confused  —  which  probably  asserted 
themselves  in  his  mind  by  way  of  justification  of,  and 
criticism  on,  his  ow^n  public  acts.  We  are  a  little 
disappointed  that  there  is  not  more  of  the  individual 
portrait,  and  less  of  the  general  criticism  on  a  policy; 
but  that  is  perhaps   the  more  in  accordance  with  the 


—     120     — 

conception  of  the  soliloquy  —  a  dream  in  which  the 
only-in-imagination- dethroned  and  exiled  ruler  makes 
a  clean  breast  of  his  general  designs"  to  an  imaginary 
sympathetic  member  of  London  society.  We  quote  a 
few  striking  passages.  The  position  of  man  in  the 
creation  is  here  defined: 

I'll  tell  you:  all  the  more  I  know  mankind, 
The  more  I  thank  God,   like  my  grandmother, 
For  making-  me  a  little  lower  than 
The  angels,  honour-clothed  and  glory-crowned. 
This  is  the  honour, — that  no  thing  I  know, 
Feel  or  conceive,  but  I  can  make  my  own 
Somehow,  by  use  of  hand  or  head  or  heart: 
This  is  the  glory, — that  in  all  conceived, 
Or  felt  or  known,  I  recognise  a  mind 
Not  mine  but  like  mine, — for  the  double  joy, — 
Making  aU  things  for  me  and  me  for  Him. 
There's  folly  for  you  at  this  time  of  day! 

In  the  next  passage  we  have  a  description,  too 
enthusiastic  to  be  altogether  truthful,  of  tlie  French 
people : 

The  people  here. 
Earth  presses  to  her  heart,  nor  owns  a  pride 
Above  her  pride  i'  the  race  all  flame  and  air 
And  aspiration  to  the  boundless  Great, 
The  incommensurably  Beautiful  — 
Whose  very  faulterings  groundward  come  of  flight 
Urged  by  a  pinion  all  too  passionate 
For  heaven  and  what  it  holds  of  gloom  and  glow: 
Bravest  of  thinkers,  bravest  of  the  brave 
Doers,  exalt  in  Science,  rapturous 
In  Art,  the— more  than  all — magnetic  race 
To  fascinate  their  fellows,  mould  mankind 
Hohenstiel-Schwangau-fashion. 

The  following  lines  evidently  refer  to  the  ambiguous 
language  habitually  used  by  the  government  of  the 
Second  Empire ;  in  which  professions  of  an  ardent  love 
of  peace  were  neutralized  by  assurances  of  readiness 
for  war;  and  likewise  to  the  policy  of  keeping  the 
working  classes  quiet  by  furnishing  them  with  constant 
employment  at  the  public  cost: 


—     121     — 

You  come  i'  the  liappy  interval  of  peace, 

The  favourable  weariness  from  war: 

Prolong  it!— artfully,  as  if  intent 

On  ending  peace  as  soon  as  possible. 

Quietly  so  increase  the  sweets  of  ease 

And  safety,  so  employ  the  multitude, 

Put  hod  and  trowel  so  in  idle  hands. 

So  stuff  and  stop  the  wagging  jaws  with  bread, 

That  selfishness  shall  surreptitiously 

Do  wisdom's  office,  whisper  in  the  ear 

Of  Hohenstiel-Schwangau,  there's  a  pleasant  feel 

In  being  gently  forced  down,  pinioned  fast 

To  the  easy  arm-chair  by  the  pleading  arms 

0'  the  world  beseeching  her  to  there  abide 

Content  with  all  the  harm  done  hitherto, 

And  let  herself  be  petted  in  return. 

Free  to  re-wage,  in  speech  and  prose  and  verse, 

The  old  unjust  wars,  nay  —  in  verse  and  prose 

And  speech, — to  vaunt  new  victories,  as  vile 

A  plague  o'  the  future.  —  so  that  words  suffice 

For  present  comfort. 

Prince  Hohenstiel-Schwangau  is  not  over-clear ;  still 
an  attentive  and  patient  reader  may  generally  hope, 
with  some  trouble,  to  discover  the  meaning.  This  is 
not  so  easy  with  Browning's  next  poem,  Fifine  at  the 
Fair.  Comparing  this  production  with  his  enigmatic 
Sordello,  the  Saturday  Review  caustically  observed: 
"Neither  Oedipus  nor  Daniel  could  have  interpreted 
Sordello  J  unless  they  had  consulted  the  same  books, 
whatever  they  may  be,  from  ^vhich  Mr.  Browning  must 
have  derived  his  knowledge  of  an  obscure  passage  in 
Italian  history;  but  a  reader  wiio  should  combine  the 
energy  of  youth  with  the  tolerance  of  age,  and  the 
sagacious  industry  of  Scaliger  or  Bentley  with  the 
microscopic  acuteness  of  a  modern  German  metaphy- 
sician, might  perhaps  after  ten  readings  comprehend 
the  purpose  and  the  language  of  Fifine"  The  poem 
consists  of  a  Prologue  (entitled  Amphibian),  a  long 
pliilosophical  monologue,  or  series  of  reflexions,  uttered 
by  the  husband  of  a  certain  Elvire,  whether  for  her 
edification  or  simply  as  a  relief  to  himself  is  not  very 
clear,  and  an  Epilogue,  called  the  Householder.  Fifine, 
or  Josephine,   who  has  almost  nothing  to  do  with  the 


—     122     — 

poem  to  which  she  gives  a  title,  is  a  dancing-girl  in  a 
mountebank's  show  at  the  fair  of  Pornic  in  Brittany, 
and  unwittingly  suggests  to  Elvire's  philosopher-hus- 
band, either  directly  or  indirectly,  that  stream  of 
reflexions  which  he  continues  to  pour  out  for  about 
two  thousand  lines.  The  Prologue,  which  is  much  more 
readable  than  the  rest  of  the  poem,  describes  a  swimmer 
floating  in  a  tranquil  sea,  and  looking  up  at  a  butterfly 
hovering  above  him,  while  he  reflects  that  neither  could 
abide  in  the  other's  sphere  without  something  which, 
like  death,  should  entirely  change  their  being.  The  sea 
here  represents  the  region  of  passion  and  thought,  the 
true  element  of  the  poet,  intermediate  between  earthly 
and  spiritual  life,  and  tlie  butterfly  is  an  emblem  of 
the  disembodied  soul: 


Can  the  insect  feel  the  better 
For  watching  the  uncouth  play 

Of  limbs  that  slip  the  fetter, 
Pretend  as  they  were  not  clay? 

Undoubtedly  I  rejoice 

That  the  air  comports  so  well 
With  a  creature  which  had  the  choice 

Of  the  land  once.    Who  can  tell? 

What  if  a  certain  soul 

Which  early  slipped  its  sheath, 
And  has  for  its  home  the  whole 

Of  heaven,  thus  look  beneath, 

Thus  watch  one  who,  in  the  world, 
Both  lives  and  likes  life's  way, 

Nor  wishes  the  wings  unfurled 
That  sleep  in  the  worm,  they  say? 

But  sometimes  when  the  weather 
Is  blue,  and  warm  waves  tempt 

To  free  oneself  of  tether, 
And  try  a  life  exempt 

From  worldly  noise  and  dust, 
In  the  sphere  which  overbrims 

With  passion  and  thought, — why,  just 
Unable  to  fly,  one  swims! 


—    i2n   ~ 

By  passion  and  thougiit  ui)borne, 
One  smiles  to  oneself,— 'They  fare 

Scare  better,  they  need  not  scorn 
Our  sea,  who  live  in  the  air!' 

Emancipate  through  passion 

And  thought,  with  sea  for  sky, 
We  substitute,  in  a  fashion, 

For  heaven, — poetry  : 

Which  sea,  to  all  intent. 

Gives  flesh  such  noon-disport 
As  a  finer  element 

Affords  the  spirit-sort. 

Whatever  they  are,  we  seem: 

Imagine  the  thing  they  know; 
All  deeds  they  do,  we  dream; 

Can  heaven  be  else  but  so? 

The  whole  of  the  poem  (including  the  Prologue), 
we  are  told  by  a  critic,  is  an  illustration  of  Mr.  Brow- 
ning's text,  ^that  the  life  of  man  is  a  life  of  error 
lived  by  the  help  of  truth,  a  life  of  falsehood  which 
implies  the  need  and  capacity  for  reality,  a  life  of 
illusion  grounded  and  fulfilled  in  some  ultimate  per- 
ception of  true  being,  a  life  of  endless  yearning  after 
that  which  always  eludes  and  yet  always  inspires  us." 
Accepting  this  interpretation,  we  proceed  to  add,  that 
Elvire  and  her  husband  go  forth,  arm  in  arm,  to  visit 
the  fair,  where  besides  a  "chimneyed  house  on  wheels" 
and  sucli  like,  they  see  an 

Ape  of  many  years  and  much  adventure,  grim 

And  grey,  with  pitying  fools  who  find  a  joke  in  him. 

Or,  best,  the  human  beauty,  3Iimi,  Toinette,  Fifine, 

Tricot  fines  down  if  fat,  padding  plumps  up  if  lean, 

Ere  shedding  petticoat,  modesty,  and  such  toys. 

They  bounce  forth,  squalid  girls  transformed  to  gamesome  boys. 

Fifine  is  presented  to  us  as  a  type  of  the  sensual 
earthly  Avoman,  as  Elvire  is  the  impersonation  of  intel- 
lect, refinement,  and  mortality  struggling  on  to  immor- 
tality. But  Fifine,  mean  as  she  is,  "the  Pariah  of 
the  North,  the  European  Nautch",  has  her  place  in 
creation;  for  just  as  a  grain  of  sand  at  a  given  angle 
may  reflect  the  rays  of  the  sun, 


—     124     — 

No  creature's  made  so  mean 
But  that  some  way  it  boasts,  could  we  investigate 
Its  supreme  worth. 

Fifine's  raison  d'etre  being  thus  established,  the 
tolerant  philosopher-husband  continues : 

Well  then,  thus  much  confessed,  what  wonder  if  there  steal 

Unchallenged  to  my  heart  the  force  of  one  appeal 

She  makes,  and  justice  stamp  the  sole  claim  she  asserts? 

So  absolutely  good  is  truth,  truth  never  hurts 

The  teller,  whose  worst  crime  gets  somehoAv  grace,  avowed. 

To  me  that  silent  pose  and  prayer  proclaimed  aloud 

"Know  all  of  me  outside,  the  rest  be  emptiness 

For  such  as  you.    I  call  attention  to  my  dress. 

Coiffure,  outlandish  features,  and  memorable  limbs. 

Piquant  entreaty,  all  that  eye-glance  overskims. 

Does  this  much  pleasure?    Then  repay  the  pleasure — put 

The  price  i'  the  tambourine.    Do  you  seek  farther?    Tut! 

I'm  just  my  instrument — sound  hollow,  mere  smooth  skin 

Stretched  o'er  gilt  framework,  I  rub-dub,  nought  else  within — 

Always  for  such  as  you.     If  I  have  use  elsewhere, 

If  certain  bells,  now  mute,  can  jingle,  need  you  care? 

Be  it  enough,  there's  truth  i'  the  pleading,  which  comports 

With  no  word  spoken  out  in  colleges  or  courts, 

Since  all  I  plead  is,  "Pay  for  just  the  sight  you  see, 

And  give  no  credit  to  another  charm  in  me." 

The  Epilogue  to  this  strange,  enigmatical  poem 
is  called  the  Householder;  and  here  the  house  stands 
for  the  human  body  or  earthl}'"  life.  The  householder 
is  dispirited  and  discontented,  when  a  woman  -  spirit 
announces  herself,  and  gently  rebukes  his  impatience 
and  petulance.  The  reader  will  be  surprised  to  find, 
that  this  part  of  the  poem  can  be  regarded  as  no  more 
than  half-serious : 

Savage,  I  was  sitting  in  my  house,  late,  lone: 

Dreary,  weary  with  the  long  day's  work: 
Head  of  me,  heart  of  me,  stupid  as  a  stone: 

Tongue-tied  now,  now  blaspheming  like  a  Turk; 
When,  in  a  moment,  just  a  knock,  call,  cry, 

Half  a  pang  and  all  a  rapture,  there  again  were  we — 
"What,  and  is  it  really  you  again?"  quoth  I. 

"I  again;  what  else  did  you  expect?"  quoth  She. 

"Never  mind,  hie  away  from  this  old  house, 

Every  crumbling  brick  embrowned  with  sin  and  shame. 
Quick,  in  its  corners  ere  certain  shapes  arouse — 
Let  them,  every  devil  of  the  night,  lay  claim. 


—     125     — 

Make  and  mend,  rap  and  rend,  for  me — Good-bye! 

God  be  their  guard  from  disturbance  at  their  glee. 
Till,  crash,  comes  down  the  carcase  in  a  heap,"  quoth  I. 

"Nay,  but  there's  a  decency  required,"  quoth  She. 

"Ah,  but  if  you  knew  how  time  has  dragged,  days,  nights. 

All  the  neighbour  talk  with  man  and  maid — such  men! 
All  the  fuss  and  trouble  of  street  sounds,  window  sights; 

All  the  worry  of  liapping  door  and  echoing  roof;  and  then 
All  the  fancies.   .    .    .  Who  were  they  had  leave,  dared  try 

Darker  arts  that  almost  struck  despair  in  me! 
Jf  you  knew  but  how  I  dwelt  down  here!"  quoth  I. 

'^And  was  I  so  better  off  up  there?"  quoth  She. 

"Help  and  get  it  over!     Reunited  to  his  wife, 

(How  draw  up  the  paper  lets  the  parish  people  know?) 
Lies  M.  or  N.  departed  from  this  life, 

Day  the  this  or  that,  month  and  year  the  so  and  so. 
What  i'  the  way  of  final  flourish?    Prose,  verse?    Try! 

Affliction  sore  long  time  he  bore,  or  what  is  it  to  be? 
Till  God  did  please  to  grant  him  ease — Do  end,"  quoth  I. 

"I  end  with — Love  is  all  and  Death  is  nought,"  quoth  She. 

The  study  of  Fifine  at  the  Fair  lias  been  recom- 
mended by  one  reviewer  as  a  species  of  mental  gym- 
nastics. ''The  stimulus  to  thought",  he  says,  "is  in 
itself  valuable,  as  a  difficult  or  inaccessible  Alpine 
summit  furnishes  an  attraction   to  mountain  climbers." 

It  is  with  a  deep  feeling  of  relief,  that  we  turn 
from  Fifine  and  Prince  llohenstiel-Schwangau,  to  show 
what  Browning  can  do  as  a  lyrical  poet,  when  he 
chooses  to  descend  from  his  shadowy  Pegasus,  and 
adapt  himself  to  the  comprehension  of  ordinary  readers : 

HOW  THEY  BROUGHT  THE  GOOD  NEWS*)  FEOM 
GHENT  TO  AIX. 

I  sprang  to  the  stin-up,  and  Joris,  and  he, 
I  galloped,  Dirck  galloped,  we  galloped  all  three: 
Good  speed!  cried  the  watch,  as  the  gate-bolts  undrew; 
Speed!  echoed  the  wall  to  us  galloping  through; 
Behind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights  sank  to  rest, 
And  into  the  midnight  we  galloped  abreast. 


')  Probably  the  news  of  the  revolution  of  1539. 


—     126     — 

Not  a  word  to  each  other;  we  kept  the  great  pace 
Neck  by  neck,  stride  by  stride,  never  changing  our  place: 
I  turned  in  ray  saddle  and  made  its  girths  tight, 
Then  shortened  each  stirrup,  and  set  the  pique  right, 
Rebuckled  the  cheek-strap,  chained  slacker  the  bit. 
Nor  galloped  less  steadily  Eoland  a  bit. 

'Twas  sunset  at  starting;  but  while  we  drew  near 

Lockeren,  the  cocks  crew  and  twilight  dawned  clear; 

At  Boom,  a  great  yellow  star  came  out  to  see; 

At  Diiffeld,  'twas  morning  as  plain  as  could  be ; 

And  from  Mecheln  church-steeple  we  heard  the  half-chime, 

So  Joris  broke  silence  with.  Yet  there  is  time! 

At  Aerschot,  up  leaped  of  a  sudden  the  sun, 
And  against  him  the  cattle  stood  black  every  one, 
To  stare  thro'  the  mist  at  us  galloping  past, 
And  I  saw  my  stout  galloper  Roland,  at  last, 
With  resolute  shoulders,  each  butting  away 
The  haze,  as  some  bluft"  river  headland  its  spray. 

And  his  low  head  and  crest,  just  one  sharp  ear  bent  back 
For  my  voice,  and  the  other  pricked  out  on  his  track; 
And  one  eye's  black  intelligence— ever  that  glance 
O'er  its  white  edge  at  me,  his  own  master,  askance! 
And  the  thick  heavy  spume-flakes  which  aye  and  anon 
His  fierce  lips  shook  upwards  in  galloping  on. 

By  Hasselt,  Dirck  gi'oaned;  and  cried  Joris,  Stay  spur! 
Your  Roos  galloped  bravely,  the  fault's  not  in  her, 
We'll  remember  at  Aix: — for  one  heard  the  quick  wheeze 
Of  her  chest,  saw  the  stretched  neck  and  staggering  knees, 
And  sunk  tail,  and  horrible  heave  of  the  flank, 
As  down  on  her  haunches  she  shuddered,  and  sank. 

So  we  were  left  galloping,  Joris  and  I, 

Past  Looz  and  past  Tongres,  no  cloud  in  the  sky; 

The  broad  sun  above  laughed  a  pitiless  laugh, 

'Neath  our  feet  broke   the  brittle  bright  stubble  like  chaff; 

Till  »jver  by  Dalhelm  a  dome-spire  sprang  white. 

And  Gallop!  gasped  Joris,  for  Aix  is  in  sight! 

How  they'll  greet  us— and  all  in  a  moment  his  roan 
Rolled  neck  and  croup  over,  lay  dead  as  a  stone; 
And  there  was  my  Roland  to  bear  the  whole  weight 
Of  the  news  which  alone  could  save  Aix  from  her  fate, 
With  his  nostrils  like  pits  full  of  blood  to  the  brim, 
And  with  circles  of  red  for  his  eye-socket's  rim. 


—     127     — 

Then  I  cast  loose  iiiy  buff-coat,  each  holster  let  fall, 

Shook  off  both  my  jack-boots,  let  go  belt  and  all, 

Stood  up  ill  tlie  stirrup,  leaned,  patted  his  ear, 

Called  my  Roland  liis  pet-name,  my  liorse  witlumt  peer, 

Clapped  my  hands,  laughed  and  sang,  any  noise,  bad  or  good:— 

Till  at  length  into  Aix  Roland  galloped  and  stood. 

And  all  I  remember  is,  friends  flocking  around, 

As  I  sat  with  his  head  tmxt  my  knees  on  the  ground, 

And  no  voice  but  was  praising  this  Roland  of  mine. 

As  I  poured  dovvTi  his  throat  our  last  measure  of  wine. 

Which  —  the  burgesses  voted  by  common  consent  — 

Was  no  more  than  his  due  who  brought  good  news  from  Ghent. 

Ill  1873  Mr.  Browning'  produced  a  strange  poem, 
with  a  still  stranger  title:  Red  Cotton  Night-cap  Country; 
on  which  our  space  forbids  us  to  dwell.  We  have  still 
a  few  words  to  say  about  Mr.  Browning's  style.  Some 
of  his  shorter  poems,  on  wiiicli  he  has  evidently  ex- 
pended a  certain  care,  are  smooth  and  melodious,  but 
the  greater  part  of  what  he  has  written  is  irregular, 
jerky  and  unmusical.  A  critic  in  the  Times  lately  ob- 
served, with  a  covert  allusion  to  Browning,  that  the 
blank  verse  of  the  period  creates  a  sensation  some- 
thing like  that  experienced  in  a  drive  over  a  rutty 
road.  His  habitual  obscurity  we  have  already  to  some 
extent  excused,  the  subjects  themselves  being  often 
little  known,  and  his  mode  of  handling  them  being  very 
peculiar.  Still,  much  of  that  want  of  perspicuity,  of 
which  every  reader  complains,  is  chargeable  on  the 
unwarrantal3le  liberties  which  Browning  takes  with  the 
language.  "It  is  all  right,  no  doubt,"  ironically  ob- 
serves the  above-mentioned  critic,  "to  take  any  unoffen- 
ding substantive  and  enlist  it  by  force  in  the  army 
of  verbs,  or,  with  the  addition  of  one  or  two  letters, 
in  a  regiment  of  adjectives  and  participles ;  but  just  at 
first  the  appearance  of  such  a  phenomenon  is  apt  to  excite 
prejudice,  to  provoke  an  exclamation,  as  at  a  sudden 
shock".  Not  only  does  Mr.  Browning  do  tliis,  but  he  often 
darkens  the  riddle  by  the  omission  of  the  article  and 
the  sign  of  the  infinitive.  A  single  example  will  suffice : 

WTiat  sound  out-warbles  brook,   while  at  the  source  it  wins 
That  moss  and  stone  dispart,  allow  its  bubb lings  breathe? 


—     128     — 

Here  we  have  hrook,  instead  of  a  brook:  breathe 
instead  of  to  breathe;  and  a  conjunction  is  wanting* 
between  dispart  and  allow.  It  is  nowise  surprising  that 
when  Douglas  Jerrold,  on  recovering  from  a  dangerous 
illness,  took  up  Browning's  Sordello,  and  found  it  quite 
unintelligible,  the  alarming  suspicion  should  have  flashed 
on  him,  in  regaining  his  health  he  had  lost  his  reason ; 
and  it  was  only  when  Mrs.  Jerrold,  having  read  a  page 
or  two  at  his  request,  threw  down  the  book,  exclaim- 
ing, "Bother  the  gibberish!"  that  he  was  able  to  say, 
with  a  sigh  of  relief:  "Thank  heaven!  then  I  am  not 
an  idiot."  Of  late  years  Mr.  Browning's  readers  have 
no  doubt  increased  in  number,  but  in  our  busy  nine- 
teenth century  very  tew  have  leisure  and  inclination 
to  search  for  the  clue  to  these  poetical  enigmas;  and 
many  a  reader  who  opens  one  of  his  books  from 
curiosity,  will  replace  it  on  the  shelf,  and  never  again 
dream  of  disturbing  the  dust  in  which  it  slumbers. 


Mrs.  E.  B.  Browning-. 

Mrs.  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  was  born  in  London, 
in  the  year  1809 ;  and  in  1826,  when  in  her  seventeenth 
year,  she  published  a  volume  anonymously,  entitled 
An  Essay  on  Mind,  and  other  poems.  In  1833  appeared 
her  translation  of  the  Prometheus  Bound  of  Aeschylus ; 
which  she  afterwards  re-published  in  a  greatly  improved 
form,  with  some  fugitive  pieces.  The  Essay  on  Mind 
was  a  sort  of  satire  in  heroic  verse,  possessing  little 
merit,  and  in  riper  years  the  author  herself  judged  it 
so  unfavourably  that  she  expressed  a  hope  it  "might 
only  be  remembered  against  her  by  a  few  of  her  per- 
sonal friends."  Several  of  the  pieces  in  the  Prometheus 
volume,  however,  deserved  to  live,  and  gave  a  high 
promise  of  future  fame.    Two  of  these  we  subjoin: 

A  VISION  OF  LIFE  AND  DEATH. 

Mine  ears  were  deaf  to  melody, 

My  lips  were  dumb  to  sound: 
Where  didst  thou  wander,  oh  my  soul, 

Wlien  ear  and  tongue  were  bound? 


—     129    — 

"I  wander'd  by  the  stream  of  time, 

Made  dark  by  human  tears: 
I  threw  my  voice  upon  the  waves. 

And  they  did  throw  me  theirs. '' 

And  how  did  sound  the  waves,  my  soul? 

And  how  did  sound  the  waves? 
"Hoarse,  hoarse,   and  wild!— they  ever  dush'd 

'Gainst  niin'd  tlirones  and  graves." 

And  what  sight  on  the  shore,  my  soul? 

And  what  sight  on  the  shore? 
"  Twain  beings  sate  there  silently, 

And  sit  there  evermore." 

Now  tell  me  fast  and  tnie,  my  soul; 

Now  tell  me  of  those  twain. 
"  One  was  yclothed  in  mourning  vest. 

And  one,  in  trappings  vain. 

"  She,  in  the  trappings  vain,  was  fair, 

And  eke  fantastical: 
A  thousand  colours  dyed  her  garb; 

A  blackness  bound  them  all. 

"In  part  her  hair  was  gaily  wreath' d. 

In  part  was  wildly  spread: 
Her  face  did  change  its  hue  too  fast. 

To  say  'twas  pale  or  red. 

"And  when  she  look'd  on  earth,  I  thought 

She  smiled  for  very  glee: 
But  when  she  look'd  to  heav'n,  I  knew 

That  tears  stood  in  her  ee. 

"  She  held  a  mirror,  there  to  gaze : 

It  could  no  cheer  bestow; 
For  while  her  beauty  cast  the  shade. 

Her  breath  did  make  it  go. 

"  A  harper's  harp  did  lie  by  her. 

Without  the  harper's  best; 
A  monarch's  crown  did  lie  by  her. 

Wherein  an  owl  had  nest: 

"A  warrior's  sword  did  lie  by  her. 

Grown  rusty  since  the  fight; 
A  poet's  lamp  did  lie  by  her:  — 

Ah  me!  —  where  was  its  light?" 


—     130     — 

And  what  didst  thou  say,  0,  my  soul. 

Unto  that  mystic  dame! 
"  I  ask'd  her  of  her  tears,  and  eke 

I  ask'd  her  of  her  name. 

"  She  said,  she  built  a  prince's  throne  : 

She  said,  he  ruled  the  grave; 
And  that  the  levelling  worm  ask'd  not 

If  he  were  king  or  slave. 

"She  said,  she  form'd  a  godlike  tongue. 
Which  lofty  thoughts  unsheathed; 

Which  rolled  its  thunder  round,  and  purged 
The  air  the  nations  breathed. 

"  She  said,  that  tongue,  all  eloquent. 

With  silent  dust  did  mate; 
Whereon  false  friends  betray'd  long  faith, 

And  foes  outspat  their  hate. 

"She  said,  she  warm'd  a  student's  heart, 

But  heart  and  brow  'gan  fade: 
Alas,  alas!  those  Delphic  trees 

Do  cast  an  upas  shade! 

"  She  said,  she  lighted  happy  hearths, 

Whose  mirth  was  all  forgot: 
She  said,  she  tuned  marriage  bells, 

Which  rang  when  love  was  not. 

"  She  said,  her  name  was  Life ;  and  then 

Out  laugh'd  and  wept  aloud, — 
What  time  the  other  being  strange 

Lifted  the  veiling  shroud. 

"Yea!  lifted  she  the  veiling  shroud. 

And  breathed  the  icy  breath; 
Whereat,  with  inward  shuddering. 

I  knew  her  name  was  Death. 

"Yea!  lifted  she  her  calm,  calm  brow, 

Her  clear  cold  smile  on  me: 
Whereat  within  my  deepness,  leapM 

Mine  immortality. 

"She  told  me,  it  did  move  her  smile, 

To  witness  how  I  sigh'd, 
Because  that  what  was  fragile  brake. 

And  what  was  mortal  died: 


—     131     — 

"  As  if  that  kings  could  grasp  tlie  earth, 

Who  from  its  dust  began; 
As  if  that  suns  could  shine  at  night, 

Or  glory  dwell  with  man. 

"  She  told  me,  she  had  freed  his  soul, 

Who  aye  did  freedom  love; 
Who  now  reck'd  not,  were  worms  below. 

Or  ranker  worms  above! 

^  She  said,  the  student's  heart  had  beat 

Against  its  prison  dim; 
Until  she  crush' d  the  bars  of  flesh, 

And  pour'd  truth's  light  on  him. 

"  She  said,  that  they  who  left  the  hearth. 

For  aye  in  sunshine  dwell; 
She  said,  the  funeral  tolling  brought 

More  joy  than  marriage  bell! 

"And  as  she  spake,  she  spake  less  loud; 

The  stream  resounded  more: 
Anon  I  nothing  heard  but  waves 

That  wail'd  along  the  shore." 

And  what  didst  thou  say,  oh  my  soul, 

Upon  that  mystic  strife? 
"  I  said,  that  Life  was  only  Death, 

That  only  Death  was  Life." 

EARTH. 

How  beautiful  is  earth!  my  starry  thoughts 
Look  down  on  it  from  their  unearthly  sphere, 
And  sing  symphonious  —  Beautiful  is  earth! 
The  lights  and  shadows  of  her  myriad  hills; 
The  branching  greenness  of  her  myriad  woods : 
Her  sky-affecting  rocks;  her  zoning  sea; 
Her  rushing,  gleaming  cataracts;  her  streams 
That  race  below,  the  winged  clouds  on  high: 
Her  pleasantness  of  vale  and  meadow!  — 

Hush! 
Meseemeth  through  the  leafy  trees  to  ring 
A  chime  of  bells  to  falling  waters  tuned; 
Whereat  comes  heathen  Zephyrus,  out  of  breatli 
With  running  up  the  hills,  and  shakes  his  hair 
From  off  his  gleesome  forehead,  bold  and  glad 
With  keeping  blythe  Dan  Phoebus  company;—^ 
And  throws  him  on  the  grass,  though  half  afraid; 
First  glancing  round,  lest  tempests  should  be  nigh 
And  lays  close  to  the  ground  his  ruddy  lips, 

9* 


—     132     — 

And  shapes  their  heauty  into  sound,  and  calls 
On  all  the  petall'd  flowers  that  sit  beneath 
In  hiding-places  from  the  rain  and  snow, 
To  loosen  the  hard  soil  and  leave  their  cold 
Sad  idlesse,  and  betake  them  up  to  him. 
They  straightway  hear  his  voice  — 

A  thought  did  come, 
And  press  from  out  my  soul  the  heathen  dream. 
Mne  eyes  were  purged.    Straightway  did  I  bind 
Round  me  the  garment  of  my  strength,  and  heard 
Nature's  death-shrieking  —  the  hereafter  cry. 
When  he  o'  the  lion  voice,  the  rainbow-crown'd. 
Shall  stand  upon  the  mountains  and  the  sea, 
And  swear  by  earth,  by  heaven's  throne,  and  Him 
Who  sitteth  on  the  throne,  there  shall  be  time 
No  more,  no  more!     Then,  veil'd  Eternity 
Shall  straight  unveil  her  awful  countenance 
Unto  the  reeling  worlds,  and  take  the  place 
Of  seasons,  years,  and  ages.     Aye  and  aye 
Shall  be  the  time  of  day.     The  wrinkled  heav'n 
Shall  yield  her  silent  sun,  made  blind  and  white 
With  an  extenninating  light:  the  wind. 
Unchained  from  the  poles,  nor  having  charge 
Of  cloud  or  ocean,  with  a  sobbing  wail 
Shall  rush  among  the  stars,  and  swoon  to  death. 
Yea,  the  shrunk  earth,  appearing  livid  pale 
Beneath  the  red-tongued  flame,  shall  shudder  by 
Fi'om  out  her  ancient  place,  and  leave  —  a  void. 
Yet  haply  by  that  void  the  saints  redeem'd 
May  sometimes  stray;  when  memory  of  sin 
Ghost-like  shall  rise  upon  their  holy  souls; 
And  on  their  lips  shall  lie  the  name  of  earth 
In  paleness  and  in  silentness;  until 
Each  looking  on  his  brother,  face  to  face. 
And  bursting  into  sudden  happy  tears 
(The  only  tears  undried),  shall  murmur — "Christ!" 

In  1838  and  1839  Mrs.  Browning  gave  to  the  world 
several  otlier  poems,  including  the  Seraphim,  the  Romant 
of  the  Page,  and  the  Drama  of  Exile.  The  subject  of 
the  latter  is  the  fall  of  man,  or  rather,  to  quote  her 
own  words,  "the  new  and  strange  experience  of  the 
fallen  humanity,  as  it  went  forth  from  Paradise  into 
the  wilderness".  Of  course  it  is  chiefly  the  dialogues 
between  the  erring  first  parents  of  the  human  race 
that  awaken  our  sympathies;  but  the  reader  cannot 
fail  to  be  struck  with  the  beauty  of  such  passages  as 


—     133     — 

the  farewell  greeting  of  the  spirits  to  the  hapless 
fugitives,  as  they  leave  their  blissful  abode  with  the 
haste  of  conscious  guilt: 

Hark!  tlie  Eden  trees  are  stirring 
Soft  and  solemn  in  your  hearing! 
Oak  and  linden,  palm  and  fir, 
Tamarisk  and  juniper, 
Each  still  throbhing  in  vibration 
Since  that  crowning  of  creation 
When  the  God-breath  spake  abroad, 
Let  us  make  man  like  to  God! 
And  the  pine  stood  quivering 
As  the  awful  word  went  b3\ 
Like  a  vibrant  music  string 
Stretched  from  mountain-peak  to  sky, 
And  the  platan  did  expand 
Slow  and  gradual,  branch  and  head; 
And  the  cedar's  strong  black  shade 
Fluttered  brokenly  and  grand. 
Grove  and  wood  were  swept  aslant 
In  emotion  jubilant. 


Hearken,  oh  hearken!  ye  shall  hearken  surely 
For  years  and  years. 

The  noise  beside  you  dripping  coldly,  purely, 
Of  spirit's  tears. 


We  shall  be  near  you  m  your  poet-languors 

And  wild  extremes, 
What  time  ye  vex  the  desert  with  vain  angers. 

Or  mock  with  dreams. 
And  when  upon  you,  weary  after  roaming. 

Death's  seal  is  put. 
By  the  foregone  ye  shall  discern  the  coming, 

Through  eyelids  shut. 

Of  Mrs.  Browning's  minor  poems,  her  beautiful  lines 
on  Cowpei^'s  Grave,  Lady  Geraldines  Courtship,  the  story 
of  a  peasant  poet  who  loves  and  wins  an  earl's  daughter, 
the  Cry  of  the  Children,  a  pathetic  pleading  for  the 
children  of  the  poor  toiliifg  for  their  bread  in  unwhole- 
some factories,  and  Bertha  in  the  Lane,  are  the  chief 
favourites.  In  the  last-named  poem,  two  orphan  sisters 
live  together;  and  the  elder  is  happy  in  the  affection 
of  a  lover,  till  he   at  length  becomes  estranged  from 


—     134     — 

lier,  overcome  by  the  superior  charms  of  the  younger 
girl.  The  elder  sister,  mindful  of  the  vow  she  had  made 
her  dying  mother,  to  guard  and  watch  over  Bertha, 
struggles  hard  to  hide  her  sufferings,  but  "blood  runs 
faint  in  womanhood",  and  the  effort  undermines  her 
strength  and  wears  her  out.  On  her  deathbed  she  ac- 
knowledges all  to  Bertha,  and  finds  nothing  unnatural 
in  the  transfer  of  her  lover's  affections: 

When  he  saw  thee  who  art  best, 
Past  compare,  and  loveliest, 
He  but  judged  thee  as  the  rest. 

Then  she  makes  the  touching  request: 

And,  dear  Bertha,  let  me  keep 

On  my  hand  this  little  ring, 
Which  at  night,  when  others  sleep, 

I  can  still  see  glittering. 

Let  me  wear  it  out  of  sight, 

In  the  grave  —  where  it  will  light 

All  the  dark  up,  day  and  night. 

The  Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese  are  in  the  style 
of  Shakespeare's  sonnets,  and  passed  at  first  for  trans- 
lations from  Camoens;  but  nothing  at  all  resembling 
them  has  been  discovered  in  Portuguese  literature. 

While  engaged  in  the  composition  of  a  large  portion 
of  these  poems,  Miss  Barrett  —  for  she  was  not  yet 
Mrs.  Browning  —  lived  as  an  invalid  in  a  darkened 
room,  and  for  several  years  she  remained  in  a  highly 
precarious  state  of  health.  Convalescent  at  last,  if  not 
physically  strong,  she  gave  her  hand  to  the  poet  Eobert 
Browning,  who  took  her  to  Italy  to  recruit  her  shat- 
tered constitution;  and  while  residing  at  Florence,  in 
1848,  she  was  a  witness  of  the  revolutionary  outbreak 
in  that  city.  This  furnished  the  subject  of  lier  poem, 
Casa  Guidi  Windows,  in  which  she  narrates  what  she 
saw  from  the  windows  of  her  residence,  and  describes 
the  impressions  made  on  hereby  these  stirring  popular 
movements.  Every  line  is  instinct  with  the  love  of 
Italy  and  the  passion  for  political  freedom.  By  an 
allusion  in  this  poem  to  her  "young  Florentine,  not 
two  years  old",   we  learn   that  there  was  now  a  new 


i:i5    — 

link  to  unite  lier  at  once  to  her  husband,  and  to  the 
hind  which  they  had  chosen  as  their  home. 

Aurora  Leigh  (1856)  is  the  most  ambitious  of  Mrs. 
Browning's  poems,  and  she  herself  called  it  "the  most 
mature"  of  her  works.  It  is  the  first  attempt  ever 
made  to  write  a  novel  in  blank  verse  —  a  bold  attempt, 
and  only  partially  successful;  for  we  find  in  it  the 
poetical  and  the  prosaic  so  strangely  mixed  up  together 
that  we  are  often  mystified  and  irritated  by  the  amal- 
gamation. Aurora  is  the  daughter  of  a  learned  English 
father  and  a  Florentine  mother;  and  on  the  death  ot 
the  latter,  four  years  after  the  child's  birth,  her  father 
becomes  her  tutor: 

My  father  taught  me  what  he  had  learnt  the  best 
Before  he  died  and  left  me,  —  grief  and  love. 
And,  seeing  we  had  books  among  the  hills, 
Strong  words  of  counselling  souls  confederate 
With  vocal  pines  and  waters,  —  out  of  books 
He  taught  me  all  the  ignorance  of  men. 
And  how  God  laughs  in  heaven  when  any  man 
Says  "Here  I'm  learned;  this,  I  understand; 
In  that,  I  am  never  caught  at  fault  or  doubt." 
He  sent  the  schools  to  school,  demonstrating 
A  fool  will  pass  for  such  through  one  mistake, 
AVhile  a  philosopher  will  pass  for  such. 
Through  said  mistakes  being  ventured  in  the  gross 
And  heaped  up  to  a  system. 

Her  father  dies,  and  she  is  sent  back  to  England, 
to  her  father's  sister: 

—  (she  was  not  old 
.Although  my  father's  elder  by  a  year) 
A  nose  drawn  sharply,  yet  in  delicate  lines; 
A  close  mild  mouth,  a  little  soured  about 
The  ends,  through  speaking  unrequited  loves 
Or  peradventure  niggardly  half-truths. 

This  elderly  lady  had  seen  but  little  of  the  world,  for 

She  had  lived 
A  sort  of  cage-bird  life,  born  in  a  cage. 
Accounting  that  to  leap  from  perch  to  perch 
Was  act  and  joy  enough  for  any  bird. 

Under  her  aunt's  care,  Aurora  receives  a  curiously  as- 
sorted education,  comprising  languages,  science,  theology, 


—     136     — 

topography,  statistics,  drawing,  dancing,  and  needlework : 
but  at  length  tired  of  a  formal  curriculum,  she  begins 
to  read  in  a  desultory  and  promiscuous  way: 

I  read  books  bad  and  good  —  some  bad  and  good 
At  once;  (good  aims  not  alwaj^s  make  good  books: 
Well-tempered  spades  turn  up  ill-smelling  soils 
In  digging  vineyards  even)  books  that  prove 
God's  being  so  definitel}^  that  man's  doubt 
Grows  self-defined  the  other  side  the  line, 
Made  atheist  by  suggestion;  moral  books, 
Exasperating  to  license;  genial  books, 
Discounting  from  the  human  dignity; 
And  merry  books,  which  set  you  weeping  when 
The  sun  shines,  —  ay,  and  melancholy  books, 
Which  make  you  laugh  that  any  one  should  weep 
In  this  disjointed  life  for  one  wrong  more. 

Here  she  meets  with  her  cousin,  Romney  Leigh, 
a  scholar,  enthusiast  and  philantlu^opist : 

We  read,  or  talked,  or  quarrelled,  as  it  chanced. 
We  were  not  lovers,  nor  even  friends  well-matched. 

He  thinks  that  in  many  respects  the  world  "went 
ill"',  but  "his  brow  would  soften",  i^urora  tells  us,  when 

—  breaking  into  voluble  ecstasy 
I  flattered  all  the  beauteous  country  round 
As  poets  use,  the  skies,  the  clouds,  the  fields. 
The  happy  violets  hiding  from  the  roads 
The  primroses  run  down  to,  carrying  gold; 
The  tangled  hedgeroAvs,  where  the  cows  push  out 
Impatient  horns  and  tolerant  chuniing  mouths 
'Twixt  dripping  ash-boughs,  —  hedgerows  all  alive 
With  birds  and  gnats  and  large  wMte  butterflies 
Which  look  as  if  the  May-flower  had  caught  life 
And  palpitated  forth  upon  the  wind; 
Hills,  vales,  woods,  netted  in  a  silver  mist, 
Farms,  granges,  doubled  up  among  the  hills; 
And  cattle  grazing  in  the  watered  vales. 
And  cottage-chimneys  smoking  from  the  woods, 
And  cottage-gardens  smelling  everywhere, 
Confused  with  smell  of  orchards  .... 
And  ankle-deep  in  English  grass  I  leaped 
And  clapped  ray  hands,  and  called  all  very  fair. 

This  description  of  an  English  landscape  is,  we 
believe,  the  finest  passage  in  the  entire  poem.  Romney 
loves  his  cousin,  and  would  fain  make  her  a  fellow^- worker 


—     137     — 

ill  his  great  task  of  ameliorating  the  condition  of  the 
suffering  portion  of  the  human  race ;  but  Aurora  declines 
the  offer,  regarding  his  aims  as  too  frigidly  material 
for  a  truly  poetical  soul.    She  tells  him: 

What  you  love, 
Is  not  a  woman,  Roraney,  but  a  cause: 
You  want  a  helpmate,  not  a  mistress,  sir, 
A  wife  to  help  your  ends  —  in  her  no  end. 
Your  cause  is  nohle,  your  ends  excellent, 
But  I,  being  most  unworthy  of  these  and  that, 
Do  otherwise  conceive  of  love.    Farewell. 

Aurora's  aunt  dies,  and  she  comes  to  London, 
with  the  intention  of  earning  her  bread  by  her  pen. 
AVliile  one  day  seated  in  her  "chamber  up  three  flights 
of  stairs"  in  Kensington,  she  receives  a  visit  from  Lady 
Waldemar,  the  female  Mephistopheles  of  the  story,  who, 
after  making  Aurora  the  confidant  of  her  love  for 
Romney  Leigh,  surprises  her  with  the  intelligence  that 
the  philanthropist  is  about  to  marry 

A  girl  of  doubtful  life,  undoubtful  birth, 
called  Marian  Earle,  living  in  St.  Margaret's  Court. 
Lady  Waldemar's  language  in  this  interview  is  not  of 
the  most  delicate,  as  she  acknowledges,  when  she  says : 
"I'm  talking  garlic."  The  visitor  at  length  takes  her 
leave:  Aurora  forthwith  resolves  she  will  go  to  see 
this  Marian  Earle;  and  she  finds  her  lodged  in  a 
garret  in  one  of  the  worst  quarters  of  London.  On  her 
way  to  the  house  she  has  to  run  the  gauntlet  through 
a  shower  of  insults  and  imprecations  from  the  wretches 
dwelling  in  the  Court.  This  scene  is  simply  disgusting. 
Surely,  there  are  two  things  Mrs.  Browning  might  have 
known ;  first,  that  poor  seamstresses  do  not  necessarily 
live  among  thieves  and  burglars;  and  secondly,  that 
abandoned  women  are  more  disposed  to  slink  away 
from  the  presence  of  refined  and  virtuous  women  than 
to  vituperate  them  in  the  open  street.  Marian  makes 
a  favourable  impression  on  Aurora,  and  proceeds  to 
relate  her  brief  but  sad  history:  how  she  had  run 
away  from  her  drunken,  poacliing  father  and  worthless 
mother,  and  after  undergoing  much  suffering  was  found 


—     138     — 

by  Romney  in  an  hospital.  This  is  the  bride  the  philan- 
thropist has  chosen.     He  says: 

I  take  my  wife 
Directly  from  the  people,  —  and  she  comes 
As  Austria's  daughter  to  imperial  France, 
Betwixt  her  eagles,  blinking-  not  her  race, 
From  Margaret's  Court,  at  garret  height,  to  meet 
And  wed  me  at  St.  James's,  nor  put  off 
Her  gown  of  serge  for  that. 

The  parallel  between  Marian  Earle  and  Marie  Louise 
seems  to  ns  singularly  infelicitous.  The  wedding -day 
comes ;  the  church  is  partly  filled  with  elegant  wedding- 
guests  from  the  aristocratic  West-End,  partly  with  the 
worst  refuse  of  the  metropolis  —  "half  St.  Giles  in 
frieze."  The  bride  has  not  yet  appeared,  and  the  im- 
patience of  the  rabble  finds  vent  in  colloquies  which 
sound  very  strange  in  blank  verse.  A  letter  from  Marian 
is  at  last  brought  to  the  impatient  bridegroom  by  a 
ragged  child;  and  Romney  finds  in  it  the  fatal  words: 

I  never  could  be  happy  as  your  wife, 
I  never  could  be  harmless  as  your  friend, 
I  never  will  look  more  into  your  face 
Till  God  says.  Look! 

Marian  has  disappeared;  she  has  been  deceived 
and  entrapped  by  the  cunning  intriguer,  Lady  Waldemar. 
who  has  resolved  on  her  ruin,  to  prevent  her  from 
marrying  Romney  Leigh.  Of  this  the  benevolent  philo- 
sopher has  no  suspicion,  and  he  habitually  speaks  of 
Lady  Waldemar  as  "good",  an  epithet  which  furnishes 
Mrs.  Browning  with  the  text  of  a  furious  homily: 

In  the  middle  age, 
I  think  they  called  malignant  fays  and  imps 
Good  people.  A  good  neighbour,  even  in  this, 
Is  fatal  sometimes,  —  cuts  your  morning  up 
To  mince-meat  of  the  very  smallest  talk, 
Then  helps  to  sugar  her  bohea  at  night 
With  your  reputation.  I  have  known  good  wives, 
As  chaste,  or  nearly  so,  as  Fotiphar's; 
And  good,  good  mothers,  who  would  use  a  child 
To  better  an  intrigue,  good  friends,  beside, 
(Very  good)  who  hung  succinctly  round  your  neck 


^     —     139     — 

And  sucked  your  breath,  as  cats  are  fabled  to  do 
By  sleephii^  infants.     And  we  all  have  kno\vn 
Good  critics  who  have  stamped  out  poet's  hope, 
Good  statesmen  who  pulled  ruin  on  the  state, 
Good  patriots  who  for  a  tlieory  risked  a  cause, 
Good  kings  who  disembowelled  for  a  tax, 
Good  popes  who  brought  all  good  to  jeopardy. 
Good  Christians  Avho  sate  still  in  easy  chairs 
And  damned  the  general  world  for  standing  up  — 
Now  may  the  good  (Jod  pardon  all  good  men! 

Time  passes  on.  Aurora  Leigh  is  in  Paris.  She 
lias  never  given  up  her  search  for  Marian;  and  one 
day,  when  least  expecting  it,  she  finds  her  in  the 
French  capital.  Marian  has  again  a  sad  story  of 
treachery  and  cruelty  to  tell  —  the  wrong -doer, 
this  time,  of  course  being  Lady  Waldemar  —  and 
Aurora,  convinced  of  the  purity  of  Marian's  soul,  though 
she  has  a  baby  at  her  breast,  resolves  to  take  her 
with  her  to  Italy.  A  railway  journey  is  generally  con- 
sidered a  matter  prosaic  enough,  but  in  Mrs.  Brov\'- 
ning's  hands  it  acquires  a  tinge  of  poetry: 

I  just  knew  it  when  we  swept 
Above  the  old  roofs  of  Dijon :  Lyons  dropped 
A  spark  into  the  night,  half  trodden  out 
Unseen.  But  presently  the  winding  Rhone 
Washed  out  the  moonlight  large  along  his  banks 
WTiich  strained  their  yielding  curves  out  clear  and  clean 
To  hold  it,  —  shadow  of  town  and  castle  blurred 
Upon  the  hurrying  river.   Such  an  air 
Blew  thence  upon  the  forehead,  —  half  an  air 
And  half  a  water,  —  that  I  leaned  and  looked, 
Then,  turning  back  to  Marian,  smiled  to  mark 
That  she  looked  only  on  her  child,  who  slept, 
His  face  toward  the  moon  too. 

So  we  passed 
The  liberal  open  country  and  the  close. 
And  shot  through  tunnels,  like  a  lightning- wedge 
By  great  Thor-hammers  driven  through  the'  rock, 
Which,  quivering  through  the  intestine  blackness,  splits. 
And  lets  it  in  at  once:   the  train  swept  in 
Athrob  with  eifort,  trembling  with  resolve, 
The  fierce  denouncing  whistle  wailing  on 
And  dying  oif  smothered  in  the  shuddering  dark, 


—     140     — 

While  we,  self-awed,  drew  troubled  breath,  oppressed 
As  other  Titans  underneath  the  pile 
And  nightmare  of  the  mountains.    Out,  at  last, 
To  catch  the  dawn  afloat  upon  the  land! 

In  the  mean  time  Eomney  Leigh  has  been  rewarded 
for  all  his  benevolent  schemes  with  foul  ingratitude. 
The  ruffians  he  intended  to  benefit  burned  down  the 
building  he  had  erected  as  an  asylum  and  a  reformatory ; 
and  though  he  escapes  with  his  life,  he  loses  his 
eyesight.  On  learning  that  Marian  has  been  found,  he 
is  still  quite  willing  to  marry  her ;  but  she  resolves  to 
live  henceforth  only  for  her  child.  His  heart  broken, 
and  his  illusions  gone,  he  is  just  going  to  take  leave 
of  Aurora  for  ever,  when  she  acknowledges  her  love 
for  him,  and  consents  to  become  his  wife. 

We  cannot  refrain  from  quoting  a  few  lines  of 
that  very  fine  passage,  which  describes  Aurora's  feel- 
ings on  revisiting  the  home  of  her  childhood: 

I  knew  the  birds 
And  insects,  —  which  looked  fathered  by  the  floAvers 
And  emulous  of  their  hues :  I  recognised 
The  moths,  with  that  great  overpoise  of  mngs 
Which  make  a  mystery  of  them  how  at  all 
They  can  stop  flying:  butterflies  that  bear 
Upon  their  blue  wings  such  red  embers  round, 
They  seem  to  scorch  the  blue  air  into  holes 
Eacii  flight  they  take:  and  fire-flies  that  suspire 
In  short  soft  lapses  of  transported  flame 
Across  the  tingling  Dark,  while  overhead 
The  constant  and  inviolable  stars 
Outburn  those  light-of-love :  melodious  owls 
(If  music  had  but  one  note  and  was  sad, 
'Twould  sound  just  so);  and  all  the  silent  swirl 
Of  bats  that  seem  to  follow  in  the  air 
Some  grand  circumference  of  a  shadowy  dome 
To  which  we  are  blind:  and  then  the  nightingales. 
Which  pluck  our  heart  across  a  garden-wall 
(When  walking  in  the  town)  and  carry  it 
So  high  into  the  bowery  almond-trees 
We  tremble  and  are  afraid,  and  feel  as  if 
The  golden  flood  of  moonlight  unaware 
Dissolved  tlie  pillars  of  the  steady  earth 
And  made  it  less  substantial. 


—     141     — 

By  some  critics  Aurora  Leigh  has  been  most  extra- 
vagantly praised.  In  this  poem,  declares  one  writer, 
she  has  proved  herself  the  greatest  of  English  poetesses ; 
another  says,  the  greatest  female  poet  on  record.  Cooler- 
headed  judges  have  found  that  the  poem  possesses  both 
great  beauties  and  serious  blemishes.  The  metaphysical 
disquisitions  and  rambling  common-place  conversations, 
which  so  largely  enter  into  it,  ''have  more  than  once 
reminded  us",  says  Mr.  Robert  Chambers,  "of  the 
descriptions  of  the  retreat  from  Moscow,  where  tlie 
French  soldier  might  be  seen  dipping  his  gold  cup  into 
muddy  ponds  for  drink,  or  eating  the  meanest  viands 
off  porcelain  and  silver."  The  plot,  too,  has  been  by 
many  authorities  pronounced  to  be  unnatural  or  absurd. 
Though  intended  to  be  a  philosophical  poem,  it  is 
written  at  a  passion-heat  from  beginning  to  end;  and 
there  is  no  lack  of  vehement  denunciations,  not  un- 
frequently  of  doubtful  justice.  With  all  these  defects, 
it  must  be  conceded,  that  Aurora  Leigh  is  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  poems  of  modern  times.  The  moral 
it  teaches  is  succinctly  enunciated  in  these  words: 

No  earnest  work 
Of  any  honest  creature,  albeit  weak, 
Imperfect,  ill-adapted,  fails  so  much, 
It  is  not  gathered  as  a  grain  of  sand 
To  enlarge  the  sum  of  human  actions  used 
For  carrying  out  God's  ends. 

Mrs.  E.  B.  Browning  died  in  1861. 


Robert  Lord  Lytton. 

Lord  Lytton's  only  son,  Robert  Lord  Lytton,  pub- 
lished in  1855,  under  the  name  of  "Owen  Meredith" 
Clytemnestra  and  other  PoemSj  followed  by  the  Wanderer 
in  1859,  and  a  poetical  tale,  Lucile  in  1860.  In  1868 
appeared,  under  his  own  name,  his  romantic,  half- 
Byronian  Chronicles  and  Characters^  and  in  1874  his 
Fables  in  Song.  On  the  whole,  we  rather  prefer  the 
poems  of  Owen  Meredith,  which  unite  fancy  with  good 
sense,  and  simplicity  with  smoothness,  to  those  of  later 


—     142     — 

date.  With  one  passage  we  have  been  particularly  struck. 
A  wife  and  mother  excuses  the  faults  of  her  sex  by 
reminding'  us  that  in  love  and  marriage  women  have 
no  choice,  or,  to  give  her  own  words :  "we  women  cannot 
choose  our  lot:" 

But  blame  us  women  not,  if  some  appear 

Too  cold  at  times;  and  some  too  gay  and  light. 
Some  griefs  gnaw  deep.  Some  woes  are  hard  to  bear. 

Who  knows  the  past?  And  who  can  judge  us  right? 
Ah,  were  we  judged  by  what  we  might  have  been, 

And  not  by  what  we  are,  too  apt  to  fall! 
My  little  child  —  he  sleeps  and  smiles  between 

These  thoughts  and  me.  In  heaven  we  shall  know  all. 


In  the  Fables  in  Song,  the  stories,  simple  as  they 
generally  are,  show  no  want  of  invention,  and  are  well 
told;  but  though  we  have  been  long  accustomed  in 
fables  to  find  birds  and  beasts,  and  even  trees,  con- 
versing freely,  it  rather  takes  away  our  breath  to  read 
of  the  different  parts  of  the  engine  in  a  steamboat 
caballing  together  against  the  oil,  and  by  their  con- 
spiracy bringing  about  an  explosion.  It  is  likewise  our 
opinion  that  the  following  soliloquy  is  at  once  too 
poetical  and  too  philosophical  for  the  solitary  eagle  who 
utters  it: 

To  what  end, 
0  Time,  dost  thou  from  bright  to  sable  turn 
The  restless  spheres  of  thy  revolving  hours? 
Whence  slide  the  silver  twilights  in  between, 
Dreamily  shuddering?    Say,  what  is't  ye  roll. 
Night-wanderers  mute,  in  mystic  vapour  veil'd. 
That  linger  laden  on  the  lone  hill-tops, 
And  pass,  like  sorrows  with  a  tale  untold? 
Who  wrought  the  unimaginable  wrong 
Thou  callest  upon  ruin  to  redress, 
Thou  moaning  storm  that  roamest  heaven  in  vain. 
Triumphant  never,  never  long  subdued? 
Beautiful  anarch !    Answer,  morn  and  eve. 
Why  to  your  coming  and  departing  kiss 
Blush,  wrapt  in  rosy  joy,  the  mountains  old? 
What  happens  nighest  heaven,  and  unbeheld, 
To  speed  thee  headlong  from  thy  native  haunts, 
Wild  torrent  cradled  in  the  tranquil  cold? 


—     143     — 

One  peculiarity  of  these  fables  is  a  curious  blending 
of  different  stj^les,  which  almost  produces  the  effect  of 
a  medley.  There  are  passages  which  remind  us  of 
Tennyson,  others  of  Browning,  and  the  following  lines, 
the  reader  Avill  perceive,  are  quite  in  the  early  style 
of  Wordsworth: 

A  little  child,  scarce  five  years  old. 

And  blithe  as  bird  on  bough; 
A  little  maiden,  briglit  as  gold, 

And  pure  as  new-fall'n  snow. 
Things  seen,  to  her,  are  things  unknown: 

Things  near  are  far  away: 
The  neighbouring  hamlet,  next  our  own, 

As  distant  as  Cathay! 


It  must  not,  however,  be  supposed  that  we  do  not 
sometimes  meet  with  fine  —  we  will  even  say,  very 
fine  passages  —  in  the  Fables  in  Song;  and  as  an 
example  we  will  quote  from  the  second  volume  the 
description  of  a  sculptor's  studio: 

Large  was  the  chamber;  bathed  with  light  serene 

And  silence  tuned,  not  troubled,  by  the  sound 
Of  one  cool  fountain  tinkling  in  the  green 

Of  laurel  groves  that  girt  the  porches  round. 
And  in  that  chamber  the  sole  dwellers  were 

Ideas,  clad  in  clear  and  stately  shape; 
Save  one,  a  prisoner,  huge,  uncouth,  and  bare, 

Hung  fast  in  fetters,  hopeless  of  escape. 
And  broken  at  the  heart,  —  a  Marble  Block. 

Even  as  a  hero,  in  base  ambuscade 
Fallen;  so,  fall'n,  and  from  his  native  rock 

Borne  here  in  chains,  the  indignant  Marble  made 
No  moan;  but  round,  in  dumb  remonstrance  gazed; 

And,  gazing,  saw,  surprised,  all  round  him  stand 
The  images  of  gods.    With  right  arm  raised, 

Jove  launch'd  the  thunders  from  his  loaded  hand: 
A  light  of  undulating  lovelinesses. 

Rose  foam-born  Venus  from  the  foam;  and,  dread 
With  dismal  beauty,  by  its  serpent  tresses 

Did  sworded  Perseus  lift  Medusa's  head: 
Tliere  paused  a-tiptoe  wing-capp'd  Mercury: 

Apollo,  pensive  smiling,  linger'd  here: 
There  stately  Pallas  stood,  with  brooding  eye, 

FuU  ami'd,  and  grasp'd  the  segis  and  the  spear. 


—     144     — 

Besides  a  number  of  imitations  and  free  translations 
from  the  Italian,  Danish,  Servian,  and  other  languages, 
Lord  Lytton  produced,  in  1869,  under  the  name  of 
Orval;  or,  the  Fool  of  Time,  a  paraphrase  of  the  very 
remarkable  dramatic  poem,  the  Infernal  Coinedy,  of  the 
Polish  poet.  Count  Sigismund  Krasinski,  who,  in  the 
early  part  of  1859,  died  at  Paris.  We  are  informed 
by  Lord  Lytton,  that  he  himself  had  long  contemplated 
a  poem,  based  on  the  French  Revolution,  the  object 
of  which,  however,  "was  not  to  depict,  in  historical 
detail,  any  particular  series  of  events,  but  to  give,  if 
possible,  imaginative  forms  to  those  abstract  ideas  and 
general  conceptions,  from  which  both  the  character 
and  occasion  of  the  events  of  1789  were  derived."  In 
this  work  he  had  already  made  some  progress,  when, 
becoming  acquainted  with  Count  Krasinski's  poem,  he 
was  struck  with  the  curious  though  accidental  resem- 
blance, of  his  own  three  principal  characters  to  the 
three  leading  personages  of  the  Polish  poet.  In  conse- 
quence of  this  discovery,  he  threw  aside  his  manuscript, 
and  undertook  a  paraphrase  of  the  Infernal  Comedy; 
replacing  the  Polish  names  of  the  three  chief  actors 
by  the  more  pronounceable  ones  of  Orval,  Veronica, 
and  Muriel.  The  poem  is  divided  into  five  epochs,  in 
the  first  two  of  which  Orval  is  presented  to  us  as  a 
sort  of  Faustus,  deserting  his  home  and  his  young 
wife,  Veronica,  to  seek  unholy  communion  with  the 
world  of  spirits ;  in  the  sequel  he  becomes  a  revolutio- 
nary chief,  but  finally  falls  a  victim,  together  with  his 
son  Muriel,  to  the  anarcliist  insurrection  wliich  he  has 
aided  in  evoking.  All  through  the  piece  the  supernatural 
accompanies  the  action,  and  the  spirit  of  the  neglected 
Veronica,  after  her  decease,  continually  hovers  about 
her  son,  till  he,  in  the  last  scene  but  one,  falls  struck 
by  an  anarchist  ball. 

Of  tlie  merits  of  the  Polisli  poem  we  are  not 
competent  to  speak;  but  a  couple  of  extracts  from 
Lord  Lytton's  paraphrase  will  show  in  what  a  mas- 
terly manner  his  own  task  has  been  executed.  In  the 
first,  Orval,  climbing  a  rugged  mountain  above  a  stormy 


—     145     — 

sea,  in  pursuit  of  an  evil  spirit  by  whose  spells  he  is 
enthralled,  pauses  and  soliloquizes: 

Where  am  I? 
Have  they  a  name  for  uien  to  know  them  by, 

Tliese  desert  steeps Calpe  or  Caucasus, 

Atlas,  or  utmost  Tliule's  mountain  tops 
Mark'd  on  no  mariner's  chart?  One  thing  is  sure; 
That  never,  even  in  dream,  I  trod,  before, 
The  dreadful  pavement  of  this  dizzy  path 
That  winds  I  know  not  where:  never  beheld 
The  broken  margent  of  that  savage  sea 
That  in  his  beached  basin,  far  below, 
Boils  like  HelFs  caldron;  nor  yon  livid  peak 
Peering  and  disappearing  through  those  gaps 
Of  restless  cloud,  tormented  by  the  wind. 
How  horribly  the  huge  stone's  solid  bulk 
Seems  hovering  in  the  gust  above  my  head! 

Already  have  I  cross'd  the  groaning  tract 

Of  thunder,  that  with  dense  blue  drench  blots  all 

The  blighted  plain  out.  Far  beneath  me,  borne 

About  these  fang'd  and  crooked  crags,  I  hear 

Faint  noises  only,  as  ever  and  anon 

Between  black  sullen  shores  of  gulfy  cloud 

There  runs,  and  breaks,  and  falls,  a  pallid  sea 

Of  momentary  fire.  Still  on!  still  on! 

The  few"  lean  firs,  and  solitary  pines. 

That  struggled,  few  and  fewer,  as  on  I  pass'd, 

To  keep  pace  with  me,  all  have  fallen  away 

Nature's  self  cried  "Halt! 

I  can  no  turther  go!"  Yet  on  went  I, 

And  still  must  on,  —  still  on,  while  aught  is  left. 

Above  me  where  man's  foot  may  tread.   Still  on! 

The  moral  degradation  of  woman  —  one  of  the 
earliest  consequences  of  the  anarchist  triumph  —  revolts 
the  mind  of  Orval,  and  obtrudes  itself  on  him  as  a 
menace  and  a  foretaste  of  new  and  ineffable  evils.  In 
his  despair  he  exclaims: 

0  women!  women, 
"Whom  we  have  loved,  and  honour'd,  ay !  and  served,  — 
Loved  with  the  loyal  heart  of  honest  man. 
That  fears  no  falsehood  where  he  trusts  all  truth ! 
Honour'd  on  knightly  knee,  with  tender  homage, 
Half  deified  with  holy  poesies, 
And  held  unsullied  in  the  secretest  shrine 
Of  things  divine  within  us !  .  .  .  Served,  ah  God ! 

10 


—     146     — 

Served  with  tlie  soldier's  sword,  the  poet's  pen, 

And  all  the  thousand  nameless  services 

Of  silent  adoration,  that  make  strong 

The  better  portion  of  men's  days  and  deeds ! 

Were  ye  not  mothers,  daughters,  sisters,  wives? 

Our  mothers,  and  our  daughters,  and  our  sisters? 

And  we  almost  have  worship'd  you. as  angels! 

Robert  Lord  Lytton  was  Governor-General  of  India, 
under  Lord  Beaconsfield's  administration  (1874 — 1880). 


A.  C.  Swinburne. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne,  born  in  1843  at  Hobn- 
wood  in  Surrey,  belongs  to  a  noble  family,  his  mother 
being  a  daughter  of  Lord  xishburnham,  and  his  uncle 
a  baronet  of  ancient  descent.  The  poet  received  his 
earl}^  education  in  France,  and  afterwards  studied  at 
Eton  and  Oxford.  When  at  the  university,  he  highly 
distinguished  himself  as  a  Greek  scholar.  In  1860  he 
published  two  plays  in  verse,  the  Queen-Mother  and 
Rosamond,  which  attracted  no  attention,  but  about  the 
same  time  he  became  known  as  the  author  of  some 
poetical  contributions  to  the  London  Spectator,  wliich 
were  looked  on  as  a  sort  of  protest  against  the  pueri- 
lities of  the  "good  boy"  school  of  poetry.  It  was  in 
the  spring  of  1865  that  he  produced  his  drama,  Atalanta 
in  Calydon,  and,  like  Byron,  he  awoke  one  morning, 
and  found  himself  famous.  The  Athenaeum  said  that  "no 
one  since  Keats  could  touch  him" ;  the  Saturday  Review 
declared  that  "we  were  listening  to  one  of  the  contem- 
poraries of  Euripides,  who  sought  to  copy  the  manner 
of  Aeschylus" ;  and  the  other  reviews  and  journals 
bestowed  on  it  unstinted  praise.  Chastelard,  a  traged}^ 
in  the  style  of  the  Elizabethan  school,  the  subject  of 
which  was  the  passion  of  the  young  French  poet  for 
the  unfortunate  Queen  of  Scots,  appeared  in  the  folloAv- 
ing  year,  but  met  with  a  very  different  reception  from 
that  of  the  classical  Atalanta.  The  warmth  of  its  colour- 
ing gave  great  scandal  to  sober-minded  readers,  and 
it  was  denounced  as  "morally  repulsive",  "licentious", 
and  "overladen  with  sensuous  images."  By  one  section 


—     147     — 

of  the  reading  public,  indeed,  who  longed  for  something 
beyond  feeble  imitations  of  Wordsworth,  Chastelard  was 
hailed  as  the  welcome  harbinger  of  a  new  era  of 
vigorous  and  masculine  English  poetry;  but  in  1866, 
on  the  appearance  of  the  Poems  and  Ballads,  in  which 
all  the  faults  of  Chastelard  were  repeated  in  an  exag- 
gerated form,  the  apologists  were  fain  to  subside  into 
silence.  So  loud  an  outcry  was  raised  against  the  im- 
morality and  aggressive  atheism  '  of  the  new  volume, 
that  the  publishing  house  of  Moxon  expunged  the  book 
from  their  list;  and  the  author  had  to  look  for  a  new 
publisher.  The  London  Punch  changed  the  name  of  the 
poet  into  Swine-born,  and  the  joke  was  everywhere 
repeated  with  laughter  and  applause.  Swinburne  remon- 
strated in  his  Notes  on  Poems  and  Reviews;  urging  that 
he  did  not  write  for  mere  boys  and  girls,  but  for  men ; 
and  that  there  is  a  higher  class  of  literature  than  the 
bread-and-butter  and  pinafore  school.  In  1867  he  gave 
vent  to  his  republican  sympathies  in  his  Song  of  Italy, 
dedicated  to  Mazzini;  and  again  in  1870,  in  his  Ode 
on  the  Proclamation  of  the  French  Republic,  which  he 
dedicated  to  Victor  Hugo.  In  1871  he  gave  to  the 
world  his  Songs  before  Sunrise,  in  which,  mixed  up  with 
much  extravagance,  we  find  some  of  his  finest  verses. 
His  later  published  productions  are :  A  Midsummer  Holi- 
day, Les  Casquets^  an  incident  connected  with  the  light- 
house rock  olf  Guernsey,  Ode  to  Victor  Hugo,  Cradle 
Songs,  Five  years  old,  and  In  Sepulcretis,  a  poem  in 
which  he  castigates  those  indiscreet  admirers  of  eminent 
men,  who  publish,  after  thfir  death,  what  was  never 
intended  to  see  the  light. 

Mr.  Swinburne  is  not  only  a  great  poetical  genius, 
notwithstanding  all  his  blemishes,  but  also  no  ordinary 
prose-writer.  In  1872,  he  and  his  friend,  Mr.  Eossetti, 
were  violently  attacked  by  Mr.  Robert  Buchanan,  the 
author  of  Napoleon  Fallen,  a  lyrical  drama  (1871),  in 
a  magazine  article,  afterwards  reprinted  in  a  separate 
form,  with  the  title :  the  Fleshly  School  of  Poetry  and 
other  Phenomena  of  the  Day;  to  which  Mr.  Swinburne 
wrote  his  able  reply,  Under  the  Microscope,    This  time 

10* 


—     14vS     — 

the  public  generally  took  the  side  of  Swinburne  and 
Rossetti,  thinking  that  a  rival  poet  could  hardly  be 
looked  on  as  an  impartial  critic. 

From  these  observations  it  may  be  gathered,  that 
in  Swinburne's  poetry  there  is  very  little  whicli  we 
should  feel  justified  in  quoting  in  such  a  work  as  the 
present.  One  of  his  least  objectionable  pieces,  his  Ode 
to  Victor  Hugo,  will  give  some  idea  of  his  poetical 
powers : 

Thou  art  chief  of  us,  and  lord ; 

Thy  song  is  as  a  sword 
Keen-edged  and  scented  in  the  blade  from  flowers; 

Thou  art  lord  and  king;  hut  we 

Lift  younger  eyes,  and  see 
Less  of  high  hope,  less  light  on  wandering  hours; 

Hours  that  have  borne  men  down  so  long, 
Seen  the  right  fail,  and  watched  uplift  the  wrong. 

But  thine  imperial  soul 

As  years  and  ruins  roll 
To  the  same  end,  and  all  things  and  all  dreams 

With  the  same  wreck  and  roar 

Drift  on  the  dim  same  shore. 
Still  in  the  bitter  foam  and  brackish  streams 

Tracks  the  fresh  water-spring  to  be 
And  sudden  sweeter  fountains  in  the  sea. 

In  Swinburne,  says  Mr.  Justin  M'Carthy,  we  find 
everywhere  "the  same  cry  of  rebellion  against  esta- 
blished usage,  the  same  hj^sterical  appeal  to  lawlessness 
in  passion  and  art." 


t 
D.  G.  Rossetti. 


Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti,  the  poet  and  painter,  is  of 
Italian  origin,  but  was  born  in  London  in  1828.  As 
an  artist,  he  belongs  to  the  pre-Raphaelite  school,  and 
in  1857  he  supplied  the  illustrations  for  an  edition  ot 
Tennyson's  poems.  His  principal  literary  productions 
are,  his  Early  Italian  Poets,  from  Civollo  d' Alcana  to 
Dante  (1861) ;  his  Translation  of  Dante's  VitaNuova  (1866); 
and  his  Poems  (1870).  Mr.  feossetti's  poetry  is  noted 
both  for  sweetness  and  power,  but  as  has  been  hinted, 


—     149     — 

it  possesses  many  of  the  defects,  as  well  as  the  merits 
of  SAvinburne.  From  his  House  of  Life  we  select  some 
stanzas,  which  will  give  an  idea  of  the  height  and 
sublimity  Mr.  Rossetti  is  capable  of  reaching: 

THE  SEA-LIMITS. 

Coiifiider  the  sea's  listless  chime: 

Time's  self  it  is,  made  audible,  — 

The  murmur  of  the  earth's  own  shell. 
Secret  coutiuuance  sublime 

Is  the  sea's  end:  our  sight  may  pass 

No  furlong  further.     Since  time  was, 
Tliis  sound  hath  told  the  lapse  of  time. 

No  quiet,  which  is  death's,  —  it  hath 

The  mournfulness  of  ancient  life, 

Enduring  always  at  dull  strife. 
As  the  world's  heart  of  rest  and  wrath, 

Its  painful  pulse  is  in  the  sands. 

Last  utterly,  the  whole  sky  stands. 
Grey  and  not  knoMm,  along  its  path. 

Listen  alone  beside  the  sea, 

Listen  alone  among  the  woods; 

Those  voices  of  twin  solitudes 
Shall  have  one  sound  alike  to  thee: 

Hark  where  the  murmurs  of  thronged  men 

Surge  and  sink  back  and  surge  again,  — 
Still  the  one  voice  of  wave  and  tree. 

Gather  a  shell  from  the  strown  beach 

And  listen  at  its  lips:  they  sigh, 

The  same  desire  and  mystery. 
The  echo  of  the  whole  sea's  speech, 

And  all  mankind  is  thus  at  heart 

Not  anything  but  what  thou  art: 
And  Earth,  Sea,  Man  are  all  in  each. 

The  Rossettis  are  a  highly  gifted  family.  Grabriele 
Eossetti,  the  poet's  father,  who  left  Naples  and  settled 
in  London  in  the  year  1871,  was  himself  a  poet  and 
a  Dante  commentator.  Mr.  William  Michael  Rossetti, 
the  poet's  brother,  translated  Dante's  Inferno  into  Eng- 
lish blank  verse.  Miss  Maria  Rossetti,  the  poet's  elder 
sister,  published  not  long  ago  an  elucidation  of  the 
Divina  Commedia;  and  Miss  Christina  Rossetti  is  the 
author    of   the    Prince's   Progress,    Goblin   Market,    and 


—     150    — 

some  tales  for   cliildren.    The  mother   of  this  talented 
progeny  was  an  English  lady  of  Italian  descent. 


W.  Morris. 


William  Morris  (born  in  1834),  is  usually  classed 
among  the  poets  of  the  new  or  Swinburne  school,  but 
his  colouring  is  rarely  so  vivid,  or  his  language  so 
passionate,  as  that  of  Swinburne  or  Rossetti.  His 
earliest  poetical  effusion  appeared  in  1858,  under  the 
name,  Defence  of  Guinevere,  and  other  Poems,  and  was 
followed,  in  1867,  by  his  great  poem,  the  Life  and 
Death  of  Jason.  In  1868,  he  published  the  Earthly 
Paradise,  and  in  1872  Love  is  enough. 


Professor  M.  Arnold. 

Matthew  Arnold  (born  in  1822),  Professor  of  Poetry 
in  the  university  of  Oxford,  and  son  of  the  late  highly 
popular  Dr.  Thomas  Arnold  (1795—1842),  Head-master 
of  Eugby  School,  is  a  poet  who  has  nothing  in  common 
with  the  Swinburne  school.  Mr.  Arnold  published  Crom- 
well, a  prize  poem ;  the  Strayed  Reveller,  and  other  Poems, 
in  1848;  Empedocles  on  Etna  in  1853;  Poems  in  1854; 
Merope,  a  tragedy  in  1858;  besides  a  great  number  of 
prose- works  on  various  subjects.  In  the  following  elegant 
lines,  the  poet  reminds  us  that  man  —  especially  tlie 
young  man  —  must  be  always  up  and  doing,  and  that 
life  is  essentially  active  and  unquiet: 

Ah,  no!  the  bliss  youth  dreams  is  one 
For  daylight,  for  the  cheerful  sun; 
For  feeling  nerves  and  living  breath  — 
Youth  dreams  a  bliss  on  this  side  death! 
It  dreams  a  rest,  if  not  more  deep, 
More  grateful  than  this  marble  sleep. 
It  hears  a  voice  within  it  tell: 
Calm's  not  life's  crown,  though  calm  is  well. 
'Tis  all  perhaps  which  man  requires, 
But  'tis  not  what  our  youth  desires. 


—     lol     — 

Mr.  Arnold  advises  .yt)img*  poets  to  avoid  modern 
innovations  in  poetic  style  and  diction,  and  to  seek 
tlieir  models  in  classic  antiquity.  His  own  poetical 
productions  all  evince  a  liigiily  cultured  taste. 


A.  Austin. 

Alfred  Austin  began  his  poetical  career  by  the 
publication  of  the  satirical  poems,  the  Season,  and  the 
Golden  Age;  but  he  is  not  exclusively  a  satirist,  and 
he  has  since  then  produced  the  Human  Tragedy/,  Savo- 
narola,  Soliloquies  in  Song,  and  at  the  Gate  of  the  Con- 
vent. From  one  of  his  later  works  we  extract  a  few 
characteristic  lines,  instinct  with  a  pleasing  hopeful 
feeling : 

I  feel  no  more  the  snow  of  years, 

Sap  mounts  and  pulses  bound; 
My  eyes  are  filled  with  happy  tears, 

My  ears  with  happy  sound. 

My  manhood  keeps  the  dew  of  mom, 

And  what  I  have  I  give; 
Being  right  glad  that  I  was  born. 

And  thankful  that  I  live. 


M.  F.  Tupper. 
Martin  F.  Tupper,  born  in  1810,  the  author  of 
Proverbial  Philosophy  and  Geraldine,  a  sequel  to  Cole- 
ridge's Christabel,  has  likewise  written  Ballads  for  the 
Times,  many  of  which  have  been  set  to  music,  and  they 
are  all  recommended  by  the  hopeful  and  manly  senti- 
ments they  express.  Among  the  most  popular  are  the 
following : 

HONEST  FELLOW,  SORE  BESET. 

Honest  fellow,  sore  beset. 

Vexed  by  troubles  quick  and  keen, 
Thankfully  consider  yet 

How  much  worse  it  might  have  been. 

Worthily  thy  faults  deserve 
More  than  all  thine  eyes  have  seen; 

Think  thou,  then,  with  sterner  nerve, 
How  much  worse  it  might  have  been. 


—     152     — 

Though  the  night  be*  dark  and  long, 

Morning  soon  shall  break  serene; 
And  the  burden  of  thy  song, 

How  much  worse  it  might  have  been. 

God,  the  Good  One,  calls  to  us, 

On  his  Providence  to  lean. 
Shout,  then,  out,  devoutly  thUs, 

How  much  worse  it  might  have  been. 

I  LOVE  TO  LINGEE. 

I  love  to  linger  on  the  track 

Wherever  I  have  dAvelt, 
In  after  years  to  loiter  back, 

And  feel  as  once  I  felt. 

My  foot  falls  lightly  on  the  sward, 

Yet  leaves  a  deathless  dint; 
With  tenderness  I  still  regard 

Its  unforgotten  print. 

Old  places  have  a  charm  for  me 

The  new  can  ne'er  attain; 
Old  faces!  how  I  long  to  see 

Their  kindly  looks  again! 

NEVER  GO  GLOOMILY. 

Never  go  gloomily,  man  with  a  mind, 

Hope  is  a  better  companion  than  fear; 
Providence,  ever  benignant  and  kind. 

Gives  with  a  smile  what  you  take  with  a  tear. 

All  will  be  right,  look  to  the  light, 
Morning  is  ever  the  daughter  of  night 
All  that  was  black  will  be  all  that  is  bright. 
Cheerily,  cheerily,  then  cheer  up! 

Many  a  foe  is  a  friend  in  disguise, 

Many  a  sorrow  a  blessing  most  true, 
Helping  the  heart  to  he  happy  and  wise, 

Bringing  true  love  and  joys  ever  new. 

Stand  in  the  van,  strive  like  a  man, 
This  is  the  bravest  and  cleverest  plan  — 
Trusting  in  God  while  you  do  what  you  cau: 
Cheerily,  cheerily,  then  cheer  up! 

Mr.  Tupper  is  certainly  not  one  of  the  great  poets 
of  the  Victorian  Age,  but  he  is  always  clear;  and  pos- 


—     158     — 

sessing  the  valuable  secret*  of  popularity,  has  a  large 
circle  of  admirers. 

Among  the  remaining  poets  of  this  period  we  may 
mention  Dr.  C.  Mackay  (Egeria,  etc.),  Mr.  D.  F.  M' Car  thy , 
author  of  the  Poets  and  Dramatists  of  Ireland,  and  the 
translator  of  several  of  Calderon's  dramas;  George 
Eliot  (Spanish  Gipsy);  Miss  Procter,  (daughter  of 
B.  W.  Procter,  better  known  as  Barry  Cornwall),  author 
of  Legends  and  Lyrics;  Eev.  William  Barnes  (Poems  in 
the  Dorset  Dialect);  Rev.  John  Kehle  (the  Christian 
Year,  Lyra  Innocentium,  etc.^  Mr.  C  Patmore  (the  Angel 
in  the  House);  Mr.  Charles  Swain  (Metrical  Essays^; 
Mr.  Francis  Davis^  the  "Belfast  Man"  (Lisping s  of  the 
Lagan,  etc.) ;  and  Mr.  John  W.  Pitchford  (Bramble  Clois- 
ters) from  whose  Idyll  of  the  Dawn  we  give  a  brief 
extract,  not  unworthy  of  the  author  of  the  Seasons: 

Now  shoot  o'er  dewy  hedge, 
Through  openmg  woods,  the  sun's  first  rays, 
lleddening  and  warm;  and  with  a  thrill  of  life 
All  things  awake ;  the  hum  of  hees  is  heard 
About  the  garden  hives,  and  round  the  elms 
The  buzz  of  darting  flies;  chirp,  twitter,  song. 
Glad  flit  of  hasty  wing,  the  upward  soar 
Of  joyous-throated  lark,  the  blackbird's  song. 
Warbled  in  rounded  tones,  make  sweet  the  hour. 
Sparkles  the  hoary  dew  upon  the  grass; 
The  trailing  mists  drift  from  the  shining  woods. 
From  out  whose  dark  blue  depths  come  gentle  sounds 
Of  cooing  doves,  happiest  of  happy  birds. 
Cutting  and  driving  through  the  freshened  blue 
Of  cloudless  heaven,  the  arrowy  swallows  dart. 
Ere  pale  blue  wreaths  of  climbing  smoke  arise 
Above  the  garden  trees,  from  cottage  roofs, 
The  satchelled  labourers  come,  with  tools  in  hand, 
Bound  for  the  hay-fields  or  the  distant  woods. 


Poet -Translators. 

Among  the  very  numerous  poet- translators  of  the 
present  period,  it  is  impossible  for  us  to  notice  any  but 
the  most  eminent;  and  one  of  the  first  of  these  is 
Edward  Earl  of  Derby,  the  author  of  an  admirable 
translation  of  Homer's  Iliad,   in  English  blank  verse, 


—     154     — 

which  appeared  in  1864.  Of  the  many  existing  English 
translations  of  the  Iliad  it  is  generally  considered  the 
most  perfect.  Chapman's  version,  in  fourteen  -  syllable 
metre  and  in  rhyme,  is  now  out  of  date,  though  it  was 
a  wonderful  work  for  the  Elizabethan  age;  Pope's 
celebrated  translation,  in  the  English  heroic  metre,  how- 
ever brilliant  and  harmonious,  is  rather  a  paraphrase 
than  a  translation;  Cowper's  version  is  accurate,  but 
dull.  In  Lord  Derby's  translation  we  find  accuracy  and 
elegance  most  happily  combined;  as  may  be  seen  by 
his  rendering  of  the  well-known  moonlight  scene  in 
Book  VIII: 

Full  of  proud  hopes,  upon  the  pass  of  war 

All  night  they  camped,  and  fi'equent  blazed  their  fires : 

As  when  in  heaven  around  the  glittering  moon 

The  stars  shine  bright  amid  the  breathless  air, 

And  every  crag  and  every  jutting  peak 

Stands  boldly  forth,  and  every  forest  glade. 

E'en  to  the  gates  of  heaven  is  opened  wide 

The  boundless  sky;  shines  each  particular  star 

Distinct;  joy  fills  the  gazing  shepherd's  heart; 

So  bright,  so  thickly  scattered  o'er  the  plain 

Before  the  walls  of  Troy,  between  the  ships 

And  Xanthus'  stream,  the  Trojans'  watchfires  blazed. 

A  thousand  fires  bm-nt  brightly,  and  round  each, 

Sat  fifty  warriors  in  the  ruddy  glare; 

With  store  of  provender  before  them  laid, 

Barley  and  rye,  the  tethered  horses  stood 

Beside  the  cars,  and  waited  for  the  mom. 


The  attack  of  Hector  on  the  Achaean  camp,  in 
Book  XII.,  shows  us  that  Lord  Derby  is  as  much  at 
home  in  depicting  a  warlike  scene  as  a  peaceful  one: 

Close  to  the  gate  he  stood,  and  planting  firm 
His  foot  to  give  his  arm  its  utmost  power, 
Full  on  the  middle  dashed  the  mighty  mass. 
The  hinges  both  gave  way:  the  ponderous  stone 
Fell  inwards:  widely  gap'd  the  opening  gates; 
Nor  might  the  bars  within  the  blow  sustain. 
This  way  and  that  the  severed  portals  flew 
Before  the  crashing  missile.     Dark  as  night 
His  lowering  brow,  great  Hector  sprang  within; 
Bright  flashed  the  brazen  annour  on  his  breast. 
As  through  the  gates,  two  jav'lins  in  his  hand, 


—     155     — 

He  sprang-:  the  gods  except,  no  power  might  meet 
That  onset;  blazed  his  eyes  with  lurid  fire. 
Then  to  the  Trojans  turning,  to  the  throng 
He  called  aloud  to  scale  the  lofty  wall. 

Another  translation  of  the  Iliad,  not  quite  so 
equable,  but  in  other  respects  hardly  inferior  to  that 
of  Lord  Derbj' ,  lias  been  made  by  the  philologist,  critic 
and  historian,  Mr.  Wright.  We  subjoin  Mr.  Wright's 
rendering  of  the  indignant  rejoinder  of  Achilles  to  the 
taunts  of  Agamemnon,  in  Book  I. : 

0  clothed  with  insolence,  rapacious  chief. 

What  Greek  henceforth  will  prompt  obedience  yield, 
March  at  thy  word  or  strenuous  urge  the  fight? 

1  came  not  to  avenge  a  private  wrong. 

I  have  no  quarrel  with  the  Trojans:  they 
Ne'er  drove  away  the  herds  or  steeds  of  mine, 
Nor  roamed  injurious  o'er  my  fruitful  fields 
In  fertile  Pythia,  for  between  us  lie 
For  shadowing  mountains  and  the  roaring  sea. 
Thy  cause  espousing,  and  at  thy  behest 
We  came  to  Troy.  0  most  unblushing  chief, 
Not  on  our  own  behalf,  but  to  redress 
Wrongs  suffered  by  thy  brother  and  by  thee, 
Thou  dog  in  shamelessness. 

Mr.  W.  E,  Gladstone,  the  late  Premier  (author  of 
Studies  on  Homer)  has  published  a  translation  of  the 
first  book  of  the  Iliad  in  the  trochaic  measure  of  Tenny- 
son's Locksley  Hall.  So  far  as  the  translation  goes,  it 
is  pleasant  enough  reading;  but  we  scarcely  think  the 
fifteen-sj'^llable  metre  could  have  been  maintained  without 
wearisome  monotony  in  so  long  an  epic  as  the  Iliad. 

Mr.  Worsley  has  undertaken,  and  very  creditably 
executed,  the  difficult  task  of  adapting  the  Odyssey  to 
the  English  Spenserian  stanza. 

With  regard  to  most  of  the  other  Greek  and  Roman 
poets,  the  English  versions  of  Dry  den,  Rowe,  and  Moore 
are  still  the  best.  Dr.  William  Maginn  (1793—1842), 
the  poet  and  critic,  who  spoke  fluently  and  wrote  in 
six  languages,  produced  some  admirable  translations 
from  Lucian,  and  a  series  of  lays,  called  Homeric  Bal- 
lads, in  the  style  of  Macaulay's  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome, 
In  modern  literature,  the  translations  from  the  German 


—     156     — 

by  Scott,  Coleridge,  W.  Taylor,  Carlyle,  Lord  Lytton, 
and  Professor  Blackie,  still  maintain  their  reputation. 
Sir  Theodore  Martin  (born  in  Edinburgh  in  1816),  who 
at  the  request  of  Queen  Victoria  edited  the  Life  of  the 
Prince  Cbnsort,  besides  several  metrical  translations  from 
Horace  and  Catullus,  has  published  an  English  version 
of  Dante's  Vita  Nuova,  the  Poems  and  Ballads  of  Goethe, 
and  Faust.  In  translating  the  Poems  and  Ballads,  he 
was  aided  by  his  friend,  W.  E.  Aytoun  (1813 — 1865), 
Professor  of  Ehetoric  in  the  University  of  Edinburgh, 
and  author  of  the  Lays  of  the  Scottish  Cavaliers.  Another 
translation  of  Faust,  made  by  the  American  writer, 
Mr.  Bayard  Taylor,  we  shall  notice  hereafter.  Most  of 
the  French  works  which  of  late  years  have  appeared 
in  an  English  dress  are  —  if  we  except  some  of  Victor 
Hugo's  poems  and  Beranger's  ballads  —  novels,  comedies 
and  farces.  Elegant  English  versions  of  the  Italian  poets 
have  been  made  by  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt,  the  two  brothers 
Rossetti,  the  Eev.  H.  F.  Cary,  and  Mr.  W.  S.  Rose. 
To  Sir  John  Bowring  we  owe  many  spirited  translations 
from  the  Russian,  Magyar,  Polish,  and  many  other 
languages.  One  department  of  literature,  long  neglected 
in  England,  has  received  in  this  period  extraordinary 
attention,  in  consequence  of  the  movemoit  initiated  by 
Byron  and  some  other  poets,  and  since  then  so  ably 
continued  by  Frere,  Wiffen,  Bowring,  and  Lockhart: 
we  mean  the  canciones  or  ballad  poetry  of  Spain.  Of 
these  graceful  versions  we  give  a  few  specimens.  The 
first  is  by  Mr.  Wiffen : 

MOUNTAIN  SONG. 

I  ne'er  on  the  border 

Saw  girl  fair  as  Rosa, 
The  charming  milk-maiden 

Of  sweet  Finojosa. 

Once  making  a  journey 

To  Santa  Maria 
Of  Calataveno, 

From  weary  desire 
Of  sleep  down  a  valley 

I  strayed,  where  young  Rosa 
I  saw,  the  milk-maiden 

Of  lone  Finojosa. 


—     157     — 

In  a  pleasant  green  meadow 

'^[idst  roses  and  grasses, 
Her  herd  she  was  tending 

With  other  fair  lasses; 
So  lovely  her  aspect, 

I  conld  not  suppose  her 
A  simple  milk-maiden 

Of  rude  Finojosa. 

I  think  not  primroses 

Have  half  her  smile's  sweetness. 
Or  mild  modest  beauty; 

(I  speak  with  discreetness). 
Oh,  had  I  beforehand 

But  known  of  this  Rosa, 
The  handsome  milk-maiden 

Of  far  Finojosa. 

Her  very  great  beauty 

Had  not  so  subdued, 
Because  it  had  left  me 

To  do  as  I  would. 
I  have  said  more,  oh,  fair  one! 

By  learning  'twas  Rosa, 
The  charming  milk-maiden 

Of  sweet  Finojosa. 

Tlie  next  is  by  Mr.  Lockliart: 

DON  RODEEICK  AFTER  HIS  DEFEAT.  (A.D.  711.) 

The  hosts  of  Don  Rodrigo  were  scattered  in  dismay, 
When  lost  was  the  eighth  battle,  nor  heart  nor  hope  had  they; 
He,  when  he  saw  the  field  was  lost,  and  all  his  hope  was  flown, 
He  turned  him  from  his  flying  host,  and  took  his  way  alone. 

His  horse  was  bleeding,  blind  and  lame,  he  could  no  farther  go; 
Dismounted,  without  path  or  aim  the  king  stepped  to  and  fro: 
It  was  a  sight  of  pity  to  look  on  Roderick, 
For  sore  athirst  and  hungry,  he  staggered  faint  and  sick. 

All  stained  and  smeared  with  dust  and  blood,  like  to  some   smoul- 
dering brand. 
Plucked  from  the  flame,  Rodrigo  showed ;  his  sword  was  in  his  hand ; 
But  it  was  hacked  into  a  saw  of  dark  and  purple  tint; 
His  jewelled  mail  had  many  a  flaw,  his  helmet  many  a  dint. 

He  climbed  into  a  hill  top,  the  highest  he  could  see; 
Thence  all  about  of  that  wide  route,  his  last  long  look  took  he; 
He  saw  his  royal  banners  where  they  lay  drenched  and  torn, 
He  heard  the  cry  of  victory,  the  Arab  shout  of  scorn. 


—     158     — 

He  looked  for  the  brave  captains  who   had  led  the  hosts  of  Spain, 
But  all  were  fled  except  the  dead,  and  who  could  count  the  slain? 
Where'er  his  eye  could  wander,  all  bloody  was  the  plain; 
And  while  thus  he  spoke,  the  tears  he  shed  ran  down  his  cheeks  like  rain 

"Last  night  I  was  the  king  of  Spain  —  to-day  no  king  am  I; 
Last  night  fair  castles  held  my  train  —  to-night,  where  shall  I  lie  ? 
Last  night  a  himdred  pages  did  serve  me  on  the  knee, 
To-night  not  one  I  call  my  own  —  not  one  pertains  to  me. 

"Oh,  luckless,  luckless  was  the  hour,  and  cursed  was  the  day, 
When  I  was  born  to  have  the  power  of  this  great  seignory! 
Unhappy  one,  that  I  should  see  the  sun  go  down  to-night! 
0  Death!  why  now  so  slow  art  thou?  why  fearest  thou  to  smite?" 

The  third  is  by  Sir  John  Bowring: 

Fount  of  freshness !  fount  of  freshness ! 

Fount  of  freshness  and  of  love ! 
Where  the  little  birds  of  spring-time 

Seek  for  comfort  as  they  rove: 
All  except  the  widowed  turtle  — 

Widowed,  sorrowing  turtle-dove. 

There  the  nightingale,  the  traitor! 

Lingered  on  his  giddy  way; 
And  these  words  of  hidden  treachery 

To  the  dove  I  heard  him  say: 
"I  will  be  thy  servant,  lady! 

I  will  ne'er  thy  love  betray." 

"Off!  false-hearted!  vile  deceiver! 

Leave  me,  nor  insult  me  so; 
Dwell  I  then  'midst  gaudy  flow'rets? 

Perch  I  on  the  verdant  bough? 
Even  the  waters  of  the  fountain 

Drink  I  dark  and  troubled  now. 
Never  will  I  think  of  marriage  — 

Never  break  the  widow-vow. 

"Had  I  children,  they  would  grieve  me, 

They  would  wean  me,  from  my  woe: 
Leave  me,  false  one;  —  thoughtless  traitor 

Base  one!  —  vain  one!  —  sad  one!  —  go! 
I  can  never,  never  love  thee  — 

I  will  never  wed  thee  —  no!" 


—     159     — 

II.   I>i'aiiiatists. 

Notwithstanding  the  reiterated  lamentations  about 
the  gradual  decay  of  the  stage  in  England,  the  Victorian 
Age  can  still  boast  of  a  few  dramatic  writers,  who 
would  have  done  honour  to  any  period  of  English 
literature.  Among  these  the  first  place,  both  in  seniority 
and  merit,  indisputably  belongs  to 

James  Sheridan  Knowles  (1784—1862). 

Of  this  eminent  writer  the  Edinburgh  Review  declared, 
that  he  "is,  indeed,  the  most  successful  dramatist  of  this 
day;  and,  apart  from  his  other  eiforts,  the  Hunchback 
and  the  Wife  deserve  a  permanent  station  in  our  drama, 
having  combined  the  greatest  literary  merit  Avitli  the 
most  unequivocal  success  upon  the  stage."  Mr.  Knowles, 
who  was  related  to  the  Slieridans,  was  born  in  Cork, 
of  which  city  his  father,  James  Knowles,  author  of  an 
excellent  Dictionary  of  the  English  Language^  was  like- 
wise a  native.  So  early  as  1820,  he  had  began  to  write 
for  the  stage :  when  his  first  considerable  piece,  a  tragedy 
called  Cains  Gracchus,  was  produced  at  Belfast,  and 
subsequently  performed  at  Drury  Lane  theatre,  London. 
Mr.  Knowles  wrote  altogether  sixteen  principal  plays, 
tragedies,  and  comedies,  which,  how^ever,  were  not  all 
equally  successful.  Towards  the  close  of  his  life,  he 
obtained  from  Government  a  pension  of  £  200  a-year, 
and  withdrawing  from  all  connexion  with  the  stage, 
joined  the  sect  of  the  Baptists,  and  became  a  popular 
preacher.  "His  works",  says  an  able  dramatic  critic, 
"are  without  a  spot;  they  breathe  the  noblest  senti- 
ments, the  purest  morality.  His  characters  do  honour 
to  human  nature.  Of  filial  duty,  love  of  country,  inde- 
pendence, liberty,  the  social  virtues,  and  all  the  charities 
that  bind  man  to  man,  they  are  bright  examples!  The 
female  parts  are  particularly  attractive;  combining 
delicacy,  firmness,  and  a  high-wrought  enthusiasm.  .  .  . 
Take  him  for  all  in  all,  he  is  a  noble  poet,  and  would 
have  cast  a  lustre  upon  any  age." 


—     160     — 

Of  Mr.  Knowles's  tragedies,  perhaps  the  finest  is 
Virginius,  founded  on  the  well-known  old  Roman  story. 
It  was  first  produced  at  Covent  Garden,  the  original 
Virginius  being  Mr.  Macready.  The  gloomier  features 
of  the  tragedy  are  judiciously  relieved  by  the  intro- 
duction of  the  sarcastic  old  veteran  Siccius  Dentatus, 
whose  caustic  pleasantry  never  degenerates  into  buf- 
foonery. One  of  the  most  touching  scenes  is  that  in 
which  the  centurion  discovers  the  concealed,  but  not 
unrequited  love  of  his  daughter  for  young  Icilius  — 
a  discovery,  as  we  learn,  neither  unexpected  by  the 
father,  nor  unwelcome  to  him: 

Vh.  —  Icilms  loves  my  daughter  —  nay,  I  know  it ; 

And  snch  a  man  would  challenge  for  her  husband, 
And  only  waited,  till  her  forward  spring- 
Pat  on,  a  little  more,  the  genial  likeness 
Of  colouring  into  summer,  ere  I  sought 
To  nurse  a  flower,  wliich,  blossoming  too  early. 
Too  early  often  dies;  but  if  it  springs 
Spontaneous,  and  uulook'd  for,  wooes  our  hand 
To  tend  and  cherish  it,  the  growth  is  healthful; 
And  'twere  untimely,  as  unkind,  to  check  it. 

Icilius  appears;  and  the  father,  with  faltering 
voice,  commits  to  him  the  care  of  his  child's  future 
happiness : 

Icihus.  —  All  that  man  sliould  be 
To  woman,  I  wUl  be  to  her ! 

Virg.  The  oath 

Is  registered.  Didst  thou  but  know,  young  man. 
How  fondly  I  have  watch'd  her  since  the  day 
Her  mother  died,  and  left  me  to  a  charge 
Of  double  duty  bound  —  hoAv  slie  hath  been 
My  ponder'd  thought  by  day,  my  dream  by  night, 
My  prayer,  my  vow,  my  offering,  my  praise, 
My  sweet  companion,  pupil,  tutor,  child!  — 
Thou  would'st  not  wonder  that  my  (h'owning  eye. 
And  clioking  utterance,  upbraid  my  tongue, 
That  tells  thee,  she  is  thine! 

On  the  development  of  the  infamous  plot  of  the 
Decemvir  Appius  and  his  creature  Claudius,  to  obtain 
possession  of  the  person  of  the  young  girl,  under  the 
false  allegation  that  she  was  the  daughter  of  Claudius's 


—     161     — 

slave,  and  purchased  in  infancy  from  the  niotlier  by 
the  childless  wife  of  Virginias,  the  unhappy  father 
makes  an  appeal  which  must  have  convinced  any  less 
interested  tribunal : 

A p pins.  —  Yoiir  answer  now,  Virgmms. 

V^irginius.  —  Here  it  is! 

Is  this  the  daughter  of  a  slave?   I  know 

'Tis  not  with  men  as  shnibs  and  trees,  that  by 

The  shoot  you  know  the  rank  and  order  of 

The  stem.   Yet  who  from  such  a  stem  would  look 

For  such  a  shoot?  My  witnesses  are  these  — 

The  relatives  and  friends  of  Numitoria, 

Who  saw  her,  ere  Virginia's  birth,  sustain 

The  burden  which  a  mother  bears,  nor  feels 

The  weight,  with  longing  for  the  sight  of  it. 

Here  are  the  ears  that  listened  to  her  sighs 

In  nature's  hour  of  labour,  which  subsides 

In  the  embrace  of  joy  —  the  hands,  that  when 

The  day  first  looked  upon  the  infant's  face. 

And  never  looked  so  pleased,  helped  her  up  to  it, 

And  blessed  her  for  a  blessing.   Here,  the  eyes 

That  saw  her  lying  at  the  generous 

And  sympathetic  fount,  that  at  her  cry 

Sent  forth  a  stream  of  liquid  living  pearl 

To  cherish  her  enamelled  veins.    The  lie 

Is  most  unfniitful  then,  that  takes  the  flower  — 

The  very  flower  our  bed  connubial  grew  — 

To  prove  its  barrenness! 

Finding  this  eloquent  pleading  disregarded,  Virginius, 
as  a  last  favour,  intreats  permission  to  take  leave  of  her 
whom  at  least  he  had  always  looked  on  as  his  daughter : 

\  irginius.  —  Appius,  I  pray  you  wait!  If  she  is  not 
My  child,  she  hath  been  like  a  child  to  me 
For  fifteen  years.  If  I  am  not  her  father, 
I  have  been  like  a  father  to  her,  Appius, 
For  even  such  a  time.    They  that  have  lived 
So  long  a  time  together,  in  so  near 
And  dear  society,  may  be  allowed 
A  little  time  for  parting.   Let  me  take 
The  maid  aside,  I  pray  you,  and  confer 
A  moment  with  her  nurse;  perhaps  she'll  give  me 
Some  token  will  unloose  a  tie  so  twined 
And  knotted  round  my  heart,  that,  if  you  break  it, 
My  heart  breaks  with  it. 

Appius.  — Have  your  wish.    Be  brief! 
Lictors,  look  to  them. 

11 


—     162     — 

Virginia.    —Do  you  go  from  me? 

Do  you  leave?  Father!  Father! 
Virginius.    —  No,  my  child.  — 

No,  my  Virginia  —  come  along  with  me. 
Virginia.     —  Will  you  not  leave  me  ?  Will  you  take  me  with  you  ? 

Will  you  take  me  home  again  ?  Oh,  bless  you,  bless  you ! 

My  father!  my  dear  father!  Art  thou  not 

My  father? 

It  is  at  this  moment  that  Virginius  discovers,  in 
the  immediate  neighbourhood,  a  butcher's  stall,  with 
a  knife  upon  it. 

Vir.     —  This  way,  my  child  —  No,  no;  I  am  not  going 

To  leave  thee,  my  Virginia!  I'll  not  leave  thee. 
A  pp.  —  Keep  back  the  people,  soldiers!  Let  them  not 

Approach  Virginius!  Keep  the  people  back! 

[Virginius  secures  the  knife. 

Well,  have  you  done? 
Vir.     —  Short  time  for  converse,  Appius, 

But  I  have. 
A  pp.  —  I  hope  you  are  satisfied. 
Vir.     —  I  am  — 

I  am  —  that  she  is  my  daughter! 
A  pp.   —  Take  her,  lictors! 
Vir.     —  Another  moment,  pray  you.   Bear  with  me 

A  little  —  'Tis  my  last  embrace.  'Twon't  try 

Your  patience  beyond  bearing,  if  you're  a  man ! 

Lengthen  it  as  I  may.  I  cannot  make  it 

Long.  My  dear  child!  my  dear  Virginia! 

[Kissing  her. 

There  is  one  only  way  to  save  tliy  honour  — 

'Tis  this. 

[Stabs  her. 

Lo,  Appius.  with  this  innocent  blood 

I  do  devote  thee  to  the  infernal  gods! 

Make  way  there! 
A  pp.   —  Stop  him!  Seize  him! 
Vir.     —  If  they  dare 

To  tempt  the  desperate  weapon  that  is  maddened 

With  drinking  my  daughter's  blood,  why,  let  them :  thus 

It  rushes  in  amongst  them.  Way  there!  Way! 

[Exit  through  the  soldiers. 

Mr.  Knowles's  William  Tell  differs  very  widely  in 
its  treatment  from  Schiller's  tragedy  of  the  same  name. 
The  work  of  the  great  Gennan  poet  may  be  said  to 
be  more  historically  correct ;   that  is.  he  describes  Tell 


—     168    — 

as  he  would  have  been,  had  he  really  lived;  as  the 
honest,  simple-minded  German-Swiss  j^eoman,  little  con- 
versant with  abstract  notions  of  liberty,  and  only  stimu- 
lated to  action  by  a  keen  sense  of  personal  wrongs. 
Knowles.  on  the  contrary,  believing  himself  perfectly 
justified  in  idealizing  a  hero,  who  never  existed  save 
in  poetic  legend,  portrays  liim  as  an  ardent  patriot, 
continually  brooding  over  the  wrongs  of  his  degraded 
and  enslaved  country,  and  who,  to  quote  the  words  of 
George  Daniels,  "feels  that  to  submit  to  oppression 
without  murmur  or  resistance,  would  be  to  throw  away 
his  birthright,  and  prove  himself  unworthy  of  those 
high  immunities  that  belong  to  him  as  the  last,  the 
noblest  work  of  the  Creator."  Mr.  Macready,  for  whom, 
indeed,  Knowles  wrote  most  of  his  principal  characters, 
was  the  original  William  Tell ;  but  it  was  subsequently 
performed  with  no  less  success  by  the  American  tragedian 
Forrest.    The  following  scene  is  from  Act  I. : 

Tell.  Ye  crags  and  peaks,  I'm  with  you  once  again! 
I  hold  to  you  the  hands  you  first  heheld, 
To  show  they  still  are  free.    Methinks  I  hear 
A  spirit  in  your  echoes  answer  me, 
And  bid  your  tenant  welcome  to  his  home. 
Again!  0  sacred  forms,  how  i)roud  you  look! 
How  high  you  lift  your  heads  into  the  sky! 
How  huge  you  are!  how  mighty  and  how  free! 
How  do  you  look,  for  all  your  bared  brows. 
More  gorgeously  majestical  than  kings 
Whose  loaded  coronets  exhaust  the  mine! 
Ye  are  the  things  that  tower,  that  shine  —  whose  smile 
Makes  glad  —  whose  frown  is  terrible  —  whose  forms, 
Robed  or  unrobed,  do  all  the  impress  wear 
Of  awe  divine  —  whose  subject  never  kneels 
In  mockery,  because  it  is  your  boast 
To  keep  him  free!    Ye  guards  of  liberty, 
I'm  with  you  once  again !  —  I  call  to  you 
With  all  my  voice!     I  hold  my  hands  to  you 
To  show  they  still  are  free!    I  rush  to  you 
As  though  I  could  embrace  you! 

Albert  enters,  toith  his  hack  to  Tell,  not  seeing  him^  and  aiming  at  his  mark, 
Albert.    I'U  hit  it  now.  {shoots.) 

Tell.    That's  scarce  a  miss,  that  comes  so  near  the  mark! 
Well  aim'd,  young  archer!    With  what  ease  he  bends 
The  bow!   To  see  those  sinews,  who'd  believe 

11* 


—     164     — 
Such  strength  did  lodge  in  them  ?   {Albert  shoots.)  Well  aim'd 


agam 


There  plays  the  skill  will  thin  the  chamois'  herd, 

And  hring  the  lammer-geyer  from  the  cloud 

To  earth.    Perhaps  do  greater  feats  —  perhaps 

Make  man  its  quarry,  when  he  dares  to  tread 

Upon  his  fellow  man.     That  little  arm, 

His  mother's  palm  can  span,  may  help,  anon, 

To  pull  a  sinewy  tyrant  from  his  seat, 

And  from  their  chains  a  prostrate  people  lift 

To  liberty.    I'd  he  content  to  die, 

Living  to  see  that  day.  —  What,  Albert ! 

Albert.    Ah! 
My  father!  {running  to  Tell,  who  embraces  him.') 

Emma,    (running  from  the  cottage.)   William!    —   Welcome! 
welcome,  William! 
I  did  not  look  for  you  till  noon.     Joy's  double  joy, 
.    That  comes  before  the  time:  it  is  a  debt 
Paid  ere  'tis  due,  which  fills  the  owner's  heart 
With  gratitude,  and  yet  'tis  but  his  own! 
And  are  you  well?  And  has  the  chase  proved  good? 
How  has  it  fared  with  you?  Come  in;  I'm  sure 
You  want  refreshment. 

Tell.  No;  I  did  partake 

A  herdsman's  meal,  upon  whose  lonely  chalet 
I  chanced  to  light.    I've  had  bad  sport;  my  track 
Lay  with  the  wind,  which  to  the  start'lish  game 
JBetray'd  me  still.     Only  one  prize;  and  that 
I  gave  mine  humble  host — true  that  scaling  yonder  peak, 
I  saw  an  eagle  wheeling  near  its  brow: 
O'er  the  abyss  his  broad  expanded  wings 
Lay  calm  and  motionless  upon  the  air. 
As  if  he  floated  there  without  their  aid. 
By  the  sole  act  of  his  unlorded  will. 
That  buoy'd  him  proudly  up.     Instinctively 
I  bent  my  bow;  yet  kept  he  rounding  still 
His  airy  circle,  as  in  the  delight 
Of  measuring  the  ample  range  beneath 
And  round  about:  absorb'd,  he  heeded  not 
The  death  that  threaten'd  him.     I  could  not  shoot — 
'Twas  liberty!  I  turned  my  bow  aside, 
And  let  him  soar  away. 

The  incident  he  has  just  mentioned  recalls  to  TeU 
the  happy  period  of  his  marriage,  and  the  days  when 
his  country  was  still  the  land  of  freemen. 

Tell.    When  I  wedded  thee, 
The  land  was  free.     Oh!  with  what  pride  I  used 
To  walk  these  hills,  and  look  up  to  their  Maker, 


—     165     — 

And  bless  Him  that  it  was  so.    It  was  free — 

From  end  to  end,  from  cliff  to  lake  'twas  free! 

How  happy  was  I  in  it  then!  I  lov'd 

Its  very  storms!  Yes,  Emma,  I  have  sat 

In  my  boat  at  night,  when,  midway  o'er  the  lake, 

Tlie  stars  went  ont,  and  down  the  mountain  gorge 

The  wind  came  roaring — I  have  sat  and  eyed 

The  tlmnder  breaking  from  his  cloud,  and  smil'd 

To  see  liim  shake  his  lightnings  o'er  my  head, 

And  think  I  had  no  master  save  his  own. 

You  know  the  jutting  cliff,  round  which  a  track 

Up  hither  winds,  whose  base  is  but  the  brow 

To  such  another  one,  with  scanty  room 

For  two  a-breast  to  pass?  O'ertaken  there 

By  the  mountain  blast,  I've  laid  me  flat  along, 

And  wliile  gust  followed  gust  more  furiously, 

As  if  to  sweep  me  o'er  the  horrid  brink; 

And  I  have  thought  of  other  lands,  whose  storms 

Are  summer  flaws  to  tliose  of  mine,  and  just 

Have  wished  me  there — the  thought  that  mine  was  free, 

Has  check'd  that  wish,  and  I  have  rais'd  my  head, 

And  cried  in  thraldom  to  that  furious  wind, 

Blow  on!  This  is  the  land  of  liberty! 

Old  Melctal  soon  after  this  appears,  blinded  as  he 
is  by  the  cruel  orders  of  Gesler. 

Enter  Old  Melctal,  a  bandage  round  his  eyes,  led  by  Albert. 

Old  M.  Where  art  thou,  William? 

Tell.  Who  is't? 

Emma.  Do  you  not  know  him? 

Tell.  "  No!— It  cannot  be 

The  voice  of  Melctal! 

Albert.  Father,  it  is  Melctal! 

Emma.  What  ails  you,  Tell? 

Albert.  Oh,  father,  speak  to  him. 

Emma.  What  passion  shakes  you  thus? 

Tell.  His  eyes — where  are  they?  — 
Melctal  has  eyes. 

Old  M.  Tell!  Tell! 

Tell.  'Tis  Melctal's  voice. 

Where  are  his  eyes?  Have  they  put  out  his  eyes? 
Has  Gesler  turned  the  little  evening  of 
The  old  man's  life  to-night  before  its  time? 
To  such  black  night  as  sees  not  with  the  day 
AU  round  it!  Father,  speak!  pronounce  the  name 
Of  Gesler! 

Old  M.  Gesler! 

Tell.  Gesler  has  torn  out 

The  old  man's  eyes!  Support  thy  mother! 

(Albert  goes  to  Emmu. 


—     166     — 

Erni?   .Where's  Erni?    Where's  thy  son!    Is  he  alive? 
And  are  his  father's  eyes  torn  out? 

Old  M.  He  lives,  my  William, 

But  knows  it  not. 

Tell,  When  he  shall  know  it!  — Heavens!  — 

When  he  shall  know  it!  —  I  am  not  thy  son, 
Yet- 

Emma.    {alarmed  at  his   increasing  vehemence)    William!  - 
WUliam! 

Alhert.  Father! 

Tell.  Could  I  find 

Something  to  tear  —  to  rend,  were  worth  it!  —  something 
Most  ravenous  and  hloody  —  something  like 
Gesler!  — a  wolf!  — no,  no!  a  wolfs  a  lamb 
To  Gesler!  'Tis  a  natural  hunger  makes 
The  wolf  a  savage:  and,  savage  as  he  is, 
Yet  with  his  kind  he  gently  doth  consort. 
'Tis  hut  his  lawful  prey  he  tears;  and  that 
He  finishes  —  not  mangles,  and  then  leaves 
To  live!  He  hath  no  joy  in  craelty  —  hut  as 
It  ministers  to  his  most  needful  want, — 
I  would  let  the  wolf  go  free  for  Gesler !  —  Water !  Water  \ 
My  tongue  cleaves  to  its  roof!  (Emma  goes  into  cottage. 

Old  M.  What  ails  thee,  William? 
I  pray  thee,  William,  let  me  hear  thy  voice! 
That's  not  thy  voice! 

Tell.  I  cannot  speak  to  thee! 

Emma,   {returning,  with  water)  Here,  William! 

Tell.  Emma! 

Emma.  Drink ! 

Tell.  I  cannot  drink! 

Emma.  Your  eyes  are  fixed. 

Tell.  Melctal!  — he  has  no  eyes! 

{bursts  into  tears. 
The  poor  old  man!  {/alls  owMelctal's  neck. 

Old  M.  I  feel  thee.  Tell!  I  care  not 

That  I  have  lost  my  eyes.    I  feel  thy  tears  — 
They're  more  to  me  than  eyes!  When  I  had  eyes, 
I  never  knew  thee,  William,  as  I  know 
Thee  now  without.    I  do  not  want  my  eyes! 

In  the  plot  Mr.  Knowles  has  pretty  closely  fol- 
lowed the  French  writer  Florian,  in  his  Guillaume  TelL 
As  originally  composed,  the  tragedy  contained  five  acts, 
but  Mr.  Macready,  thinking  it  too  long  for  the  some- 
what meagre  incidents,  cut  it  down  to  three  acts,  altoge- 
ther suppressing  an  ingenious  and  amusing  underplot. 
In  this  underplot,  two  young  patriotic  citizens  of  Altorf, 


107 

Jaglieli  and  Michael,  who  love  respectively  the  Sene- 
schal's daughter  and  niece,  obtain  admission  by  a  stra- 
tagem into  Gesler's  castle,  and  not  only  succeed  in 
carrying  off  the  fair  ones,  "notliing  loath",  but  facilitate 
the  capture  of  the  stronghold  by  Tell  and  his  Swiss 
bands.  The  annexed  scene,  in  wliich  Michael  surprises 
Jagheli  rehearsing  a  serenade  to  liis  mistress,  will  show 
that  Mr.  Macready's  excision  has  sacrificed  much  good 
and  humorous  dialogue: 

SONG. 

Lady,  you're  so  heavenly  fair, 

Though  to  love  is  madness,  still 
Who  beholds  you  can't  forbear, 

But  adores  against  his  will. 

Reason  warns  the  heart  in  vain 

Headlong  passion  won't  obey; 
Hope's  deceived,  and  sighs  again! 

Love's  abjured,  yet  holds  its  sway! 

Michael.  —  I  pray  you,  have  the  ditty  o'er  again! 

Of  all  the  strains  that  mewing  minstrels  sing 

The  lover's  one  for  me.    1  coiild  expire 

To  hear  a  man,  with  bristles  on  his  chin, 

Sing  soft,  with  iipturn'd  eyes  and  arched  brows. 

Which  tell  of  trickling  tears  that  never  fell, 

And  through  the  gamut  whine  his  tender  pain ; 

While  A  and  B  and  C  such  anguish  speak 

As  never  lover  felt  for  mistress  lost. 

Let's  have  the  strain  again! 
Jagheli.  —  To  make  thee  mirth? 

When  I'm  thy  lackey,  honest  Michael,  I'll 

Provide  thee  music.  I'm  not  in  thy  pay. 
M.    No,  but  I  mean 

To  take  thee  into  it.    Wilt  thou  hire  with  me? 

Nay,  hang  thy  coyness,  man!  Why,  thinkest  thou 

Thou  art  the  only  man  in  Altorf  knows 

The  Seneschal  has  a  fair  daughter? 
J.     Fair 

Or  not,  she's  nought  to  me. 
M.    Indeed?  Oh,  then, 

I'U  tell  her  so. 
J.     You  do  not  know  her? 
M.    No; 

For  any  profit  it  can  bring  to  thee. 

I  pray  thee,  tell  me,  has  she  not  black  teeth? 
J.     Thou  know'st  'twould  take  the  pearl  to  challenge  them. 


__     168     — 

M.    Her  nose,  1  think,  is  somewhat  set  awiy? 

J.    It  sits  like  dignity  ou  beauty's  face. 

M.    Her  hair  is  a  dull  black? 

J.     'Tis  shining  gold. 

M.    Her  figure's  squat? 

J.     Between  the  full  and  slim  — 

A  mould  where  vie  the  richest  channs  of  both! 

M.    Well,  then,  she  hobbles  in  her  gait? 

J.     She  moves,  the  light  and  flexible  chamois,  — 
If  you  could  lend  the  chamois  her  beauty, 
And  add  to  that  her  modest  stateliness. 

M.    You  are  a  hopeful  painter,  sir!  How  well 
You've  drawn  the  daughter  of  the  Seneschal! 

J.     Good  Michael,  thou'rt  a  jester :  but  thou'rt  kind. 
Thy  mirth  doth  feed  at  every  man's  expense; 
Yet  with  such  grace  of  frankest  confidence, 
That  none  begrudge  thee.  Wilt  thou  be  my  friend? 
I  love  the  daughter  of  the  Seneschal. 
Help  me  to  see  her. 

M.    Come  to  church  with  me 
Next  Sunday. 

J.     I  was  there  last  Sunday,  Michael  — 

And  Sunday  before  last  —  and  Sunday,  too, 
Preceding  that.  I  ne'er  miss  church,  for  there 
I  see  the  daughter  of  the  Seneschal. 

M.    How  wondrously  devout  thou'rt  grown  of  late ! 
They  say  there  is  a  young  man  in  the  church 
That  has  Ms  prayers  by  heart  —  unless,  indeed. 
He  reads  them  in  a  certain  angel's  face; 
On  which  he  looks,  and  says  them  word  for  word, 
From  end  to  end,  nor  e'er  is  seen  to  tiu*n 
To  other  page.   Can  it  be  thou  they  mean? 
Thou'lt  have  a  name  for  most  rare  sanctity! 

J.     Good  Michael,  can'st  thou  help  me? 

M.    If  I  knew 
The  lady. 

J.    What!  dost  thou  not  know  her  then? 
With  what  impediments  is  love  envii-on'd! 

M.    Why,  that's  love's  gain!  It  would  not  else  be  love. 
Or  wherefore  sing  it,  as  your  poets  do, 
A  thing  that  lives  in  plots  and  stratagems? 
They  know  not  love  who  need  but  woo  to  wed, 
But  they  who  fain  would  wed,  but  dare  not  woo! 
That's  to  be  sound  in  love  —  to  feel  it  from 
The  heart's  deep  centre  to  the  fingers'  ends! 
As  sweetest  fi'uit  is  that  which  is  forbid. 
So  fairest  maid  is  she  that  is  withheld. 
Whene'er  I  fall  in  love,  I'll  pick  a  maid 
Whose  sire  has  vow'd  her  to  a  nunnery; 
And  she  shall  have,  moreover,  for  her  wardens, 


—     169    — 

Two  maiden  aunts  past  wooing,  and  to  these 
I'll  add  an  abigail,  who  has  stood  bridesmaid 
To  twenty  younger  cousins,  yet  has  ne'er 
Been  ask'd  herself;  and  under  her  I'll  set 
A  male  retainer  of  the  family, 
For  twenty  years  or  more,  as  surly  as 
A  mastiff  on  the  chain;  and,  that  ray  fair 
May  lack  no  sweet  provocative  of  love. 
Her  tempting  lattice  shall  be  grated,  and 
Her  bower  shall  be  surrounded  with  a  wall 
Full  ten  feet  high,  on  which  an  iron  row 
Of  forked  shrubs  shall  stand  and  frown  on  me ; 
And  then  I'll  be  a  lover! 

^The  Hunchback",  says  Mr.  Daniels,  "is  a  noble 
play.  Massinger  might  have  written  it,  and  lost  no 
reputation  by  the  authorship"  Mr.  Knowles  himself, 
who  was,  like  Shakespeare,  a  respectable,  though  not 
«  gi^eat  actor,  was  the  original  Master  Walter,  the 
Hunchback.  In  the  last  scene  of  the  play  we  discover, 
tliat  Master  Walter  was  the  eldest  son  of  the  Earl  of 
E,ochdale,  but  disowned  from  infancy,  and  disinherited 
by  liis  father,  who 

—  would  not  have  a  Hunchback  for  his  sou; 
and  though  this  deformity,  adds  Master  Walter, 

—  was  no  act  of  mine, 
Yet  did  it  curdle  nature's  kindly  milk 
E'en  where  'tis  richest  in  a  parent's  breast  — 
To  cast  me  out  to  heartless  fosterage, 
Not  heartless  always,  as  it  prov'd  —  and  give 
My  portion  to  another! 

The  Hunchback  finds  a  wife,  notwithstanding,  who 
dies  early,  leaving  him  a  daughter,  and  this  daughter 
he  resolves  to  bring  up  in  retirement,  as  his  ward: 
for,  as  he  subsequently  tells  her, 

—  jealousy  of  my  misshapen  back 
Made  me  mistrustM  of  a  child's  affections  — 
Who  doubted  e'en  a  wife's  —  so  that  I  dropp'd 
The  title  of  thy  father,  lest  thy  duty 
Should  pay  the  debt  that  love  could  solve  alone. 

All  this  we  learn  only  at  the  close  of  the  fifth 
act ;  and  till  then  must  be  satisfied  with  believing  Julia 
to  be  merely  the  ward  of  simple  Master  Walter,  Lord 


—     170    — 

Rochdale's  steward.  In  the  first  act  we  find  Julia  in 
her  country-house,  witli  her  cousin  Helen  as  a  visitor. 
Helen  loves  the  town,  as  Julia  loves  the  country ;  and 
this  difference  of  character  gives  occasion  to  a  playful 
discussion  between  the  two  young  girls. 

Helen. 

The  town's  the  sun,  and  thou  hast  dwelt  in  night 

E'er  since  thy  birth,  not  to  have  seen  the  town! 

Their  women  there  are  queens,  and  kings  their  men: 

Their  houses  palaces. 
Julia.  And  what  of  that? 

Have  your  town  palaces  a  hall  like  this? 

Couches  so  fragrant?  walls  so  high  adoruM? 

Casements  with  such  festoons,  such  prospects,  Helen, 

As  these  fair  vistas  have?  Your  kings  and  queens! 

See  me  a  May-day  queen,  and  talk  of  them ! 
Helen.  Extremes  are  ever  neighbours.     'Tis  a  step 

From  one  to  the  other. 

The  odds  are  ten  to  one,  that  this  day  year 

Will  see  our  May-day  queen  a  city  one, 
Julia.    Never!     I'm  wedded  to  a  country  life. 

0,  did  you  hear  what  Master  Walter  says! 

Nine  times  in  ten,  the  town's  a  hollow  thing, 

Where  what  things  are,  is  nought  to  what  they  shew; 

Where  merit's  name  laughs  merit's  self  to  scorn ! 

Where  friendship  and  esteem,  that  ought  to  be 

The  tenants  of  men's  hearts,  lodge  in  their  looks 

And  tongues  alone.    Where  little  virtue,  with 

A  costly  keeper,  passes  for  a  heap; 

A  heap  for  none  that  has  a  homely  one! 

Where  Fashion  makes  the  law— your  umpire,  which 

Yon  bow  to,  whether  it  has  trains  or  not. 

Where  Folly  taketh  off  his  cap  and  bells, 

To  clap  on  Wisdom,  which  must  bear  the  jest! 

Where  to  pass  current,  you  must  seem  the  thing, 

The  passive  thing,  that  others  think;  and  not 

Your  simple,  honest,  independent  self! 

The  Hunchback  arrives,  and  introduces  vSir  Thomas 
(.'liff'ord,  a  young  gentleman  whom  Master  Walter  highly 
esteems ;  nor  is  it  long  till  Sir  Thomas  proposes  in  due 
form  to  Julia;  but  the  young  girl  hesitates  to  give 
an  answer,  and  inquires: 

Julia.  You're  from  the  town; 

How  comes  it,  sir,  you  seek  a  country  wife? 
Cliff.    In  joining  contrasts  lieth  love's  delight. 

Complexion,  stature,  nature,  mateth  it. 


—     171     — 

Not  with  their  kinds,  but  with  tlieir  opposites. 

Hence  hands  of  snow  in  palms  of  russet  lie ; 

The  form  of  Hercules  affects  the  sylph's; 

And  breasts  that  case  the  lion's  fear-proof  heart 

Find  their  loved  lodge  in  arms  where  tremors  dwell! 

So  with  degrees. 

Rank  passes  by  tlie  circlet-graced  brow, 

Upon  the  forehead  bare  of  notelessness 

l.\)  print  the  nuptial  kiss.     As  with  degrees. 

So  is't  with  habits;  therefore  I,  indeed 

A  gallant  of  the  town,  the  toAvn  forsake, 

To  win  a  country  wife. 

Julia  accepts  Sir  Thomas ;  and  in  the  next  act  we 
find  the  whole  party  in  London,  whither  they  have  come 
to  procure  the  trousseau  of  the  bride,  and  make  the 
other  wedding  purchases.  But  Julia,  once  immersed  in 
the  dissipation  of  polite  London  life,  becomes  completely 
metamorphosed,  and  can  speak  and  think  of  nothing 
but  the  brilliant  and  fashionable  life  she  intends  to  lead 
as  the  wife  of  a  wealthy  baronet: 

Julia.  Helen  —  I  shall  be 

A  happy  wife!   What  routs,  what  balls,   what  masques. 
What  gala  days!    Think  not,  when  I  am  wed,  ^ 

I'll  keep  the  house  as  owlet  does  her  tower, 
Alone,  —  when  every  other  bird's  on  wing. 
I'll  use  my  palfrey,  Helen!  and  my  coach; 
My  barge  too,  for  excursion  on  the  Thames; 
What  drives  to  Barnet,  Hackney,  Islington! 
What  rides  to  Epping,  Hoimslow,  and  Blackheath! 
What  sails  to  Greenwich,  Woolwich,  Fulham,  Kew ; 
I'll  set  a  pattern  to  your  lady  wives! 
And  what  a  wardrobe !  I'll  have  change  of  suits 
For  every  day  in  the  year!  and  sets  for  days! 
My  morning  dress,  my  noon  dress,  dinner  dress, 
And  evening  dress!  then  will  I  show  you  lace 
-    A  foot  deep,  can  I  purchase  it;  if  not, 
I'll  specially  bespeak  it.    Diamonds  too! 
Not  buckles,  rings,  and  ear-rings  only,  —  but 
Whole  necklaces  and  stomachers  of  gems! 
I'll  shine!  be  sure  I  will.    I  will  be  known 
For  Lady  Clifford  all  the  City  through. 
And  fifty  miles  the  country  round  about. 
Wife  of  Sir  Thomas  Clifford,  baronet,  — 
Not  perishable  knight!  who,  when  he  makes 
A  lady  of  me,  doubtless  must  expect 
To  see  me  play  the  part  of  one. 


—     172     — 

This  programme  is  accidentally  overheard  by  Sir 
Thomas,  who  somewhat  hastily  assumes  that  Julia 
accepts  him  solely  on  account  of  his  wealth;  hence  he 
coldly  informs  her,  that  he  will  keep  his  word  and 
wed  her ;  that  she  shall  be  Lady  Cliiford,  but  also  that 
they  shall  part  at  the  altar.  This  proposal  Julia  treats 
as  an  insult,  and  the  marriage  is  broken  oif.  A  new 
suitor  for  Julia's  hand  now  presents  himself  —  no  other, 
in  fact,  than  Master  Wilford,  who,  on  the  death  of  the 
late  Earl  of  Rochdale  without  issue,  had  succeeded  to 
the  title  and  property,  in  spite  of  his  distant  relation- 
ship. Julia,  in  a  moment  of  pique,  and  ignorant  of  the 
just  claims  of  Master  Walter  to  the  earldom,  signs  a 
marriage  contract  with  the  new  Lord;  but  she  has 
scarcely  done  so  when  all  her  tenderness  for  Cliiford 
revives,  and  she  intreats  the  Hunchback  to  save  her 
from  the  detested  union.  Master  Walter  assumes  an 
austere  demeanour,  and  declares  that  his  word  has  been 
given,  and  the  marriage  contract  signed.  The  wedding- 
day  at  length  arrives,  and  only  then  does  the  Hunch- 
back reveal  himself  as  Julia's  father  and  the  rightful 
Earl  of  Rochdale;  hence  Wilford's  signature  as  Earl 
was  valueless,  and  the  marriage  contract  null  and  void. 
While  Julia  has  thus  become  an  earl's  daughter,  Clifford 
has  suffered  a  reverse  of  fortune,  but  she  proves  her 
affection  and  disinterestedness  by  becoming  his  wife. 

One  scene  in  the  Hunchback  is  always  sure  of  a  good 
reception  from  an  English  audience.  The  sprightly  Helen 
is  loved  by  her  bookworm  cousin.  Modus,  who  can  never 
muster  courage  to  woo  her,  so  that  she  has  to  meet 
him  more  than  half  way.  Julia  and  Master  Walter  are 
both  out,  and  Helen,  in  wandering  through  the  house 
meets  Cousin  Modus,  with  a  book  in  his  hand: 

Helen.  What's  that  you  read? 

Modus.  Latin,  sweet  cousin. 

Helen.  'Tis  a  naughty  tongue 

I  fear,  and  teaches  men  to  lie. 
Modus.  To  lie! 

Helen.  You  study  it.    You  call  your  cousin  sweet, 
And  treat  her  as  you  would  a  crab ').    As  sour 

*)  The  crab-apple,  or  wild  apple,  which  is  extremely  sour. 


—     173     — 

'Twould  seem  you  think  her,  so  you  covet  her! 

Why  how  the  monster  stares,  and  looks  about! 

You  construe  Latin,  and  can't  construe  that. 
Modus.   I  never  studied  women. 
Helen.  No:  nor  men. 

Else  would  you  better  know  their  ways:  nor  read 

In  presence  of  a  lady,  (strikes  book  from  his  hand.) 
Modus.  Right  you  say, 

And  well  you  served  me,  cousin,  so  to  strike 

The  volume  from  my  hand.     I  own  my  fault; 

So  please  you,  —  may  I  pick  it  up  again  ? 

I'll  put  it  in  my  pocket! 
Helen.  Pick  it  up. 

{aside)  He  fears  me  as  I  were  his  grandmother! 

What  is  the  book? 
Modus.  'Tis  Ovid's  Art  of  Love. 

Helen.    That  Ovid  was  a  fool! 
Modus.  In  what? 

Helen.  In  that. 

To  call  that  thing  an  art,  which  art  is  none. 
Modus.   And  is  not  love  an  art? 
Helen.  Are  you  a  fool, 

As  well  as  Ovid?    Love  an  art!    No  art 

But  taketh  time  and  pains  to  learn.     Love  comes 

With  neither.     Is't  to  hoard  such  grain  as  that 

You  went  to  college?    Better  stay  at  home, 

And  study  homely  English. 
Modus.  Nay,  you  know  not 

The  argument. 
Helen.  I  don't?    I  know  it  better 

Than  ever  Ovid  did.     The  face  —  the  form  — 

Tlie  heart  —  the  mind  we  fancy,  cousin ; 

That's  the  argument.    Why,  cousin,   you  know  nothing. 

Suppose  a  lady  were  in  love  with  thee, 

Couldst  thou  by  Ovid,  cousin,  find  it  out? 

Couldst  find  it  out,  wert  thou  in  love  thyself? 

Could  Ovid,  cousin,  teach  thee  to  make  love? 

I  could,  that  never  read  him.     You  begin 

With  melancholy;  then  to  sadness;  then 

To  sickness ;  then  to  dying  —  but  not  die  ; 

She  would  not  let  thee,  were  she  of  my  mind; 

She'd  take  compassion  on  thee.     Then  for  hope; 

From  hope  to  confidence;  from  confidence 

To  boldness;  then  you'd  speak;  at  first  entreat; 

Then  urge;  then  flout;  then  argue;  then  enforce; 

Make  prisoner  of  her  hand ;  besiege  her  waist ; 

Threaten  her  lips  with  storming;  keep  thy  word 

And  carry  her!    My  sampler  'gainst  thy  Ovid! 

Why,  cousin,  are  you  frighten'd,  that  you  stand 

As  you  were  stricken  dumb?    The  case  is  clear, 


—     174     — 

You  are  no  soldier.    You'll  never  win  a  battle. 

You  care  too  much  for  blows! 
Modus.  You  wrong  me  there. 

At  school  I  was  the  champion  of  my  form. 

And  since  I  went  to  college  — 
Helen.  That  for  college !  {snapping  her  fingers.) 

Modus.    Nay,  hear  me! 
Helen.  Well?    What,  since  you  went  to  college 

You  know  what  men  are  set  down  for,  who  boast 

Of  their  own  bravery.     Go  on,  brave  cousin. 

What,  since  you  went  to  college?    Was  there  not 

One  Quentin  Halworth  there?    You  know  there  was, 

And  that  he  was  your  master! 
Modus.  He  my  master! 

Thrice  was  he  worsted  by  me. 
Helen.  Still  was  he 

Your  master. 
3[odus.  He  allowed  I  had  the  best! 

AUow'd  it,  mark  me!  nor  to  me  alone, 

But  twenty  I  could  name. 
Helen.  And  master'd  you 

At  last!     Confess  it,  cousin,  'tis  the  truth. 

A  proctor's  daughter  you  did  both  affect  — 

Look  at  me  and  deny  it!    Of  the  twain 

She  more  affected  you ;  —  I've  caught  you  now, 

Bold  cousin!    Mark  you?  Opportunity 

On  opportunity  she  gave  you,  sir,  — 

Deny  it  if  you  can !  —  but  though  to  others, 

When  you  discours'd  of  her,  you  were  a  flame ; 

To  her  you  were  a  wick  that  would  not  light, 

Though  held  in  the  very  fire!  And  so  he  won  her  — 

Won  her,  because  he  woo'd  her  like  a  man. 

For  all  your  cuffings,  cuffing  you  again 

With  most  usurious  interest.    Now,  sir. 

Protest  that  you  are  valiant! 
Modus.  Cousin  Helen! 

Helen.    Well,  sir? 

Modus.  The  tale  is  all  a  forgery! 

Helen.  A  forgery! 

Modus.    From  first  to  last:  ne'er  spoke  I 

To  a  proctor's  daughter  while  I  was  at  college  — 
Helen.    'Twas  a  scrivener's  then  —  or  somebody's. 

But  what  concerns  it  whose?  Enough,  you'lov'd  her! 

And,  shame  upon  you,  let  another  take  her. 
M  0  d  u  s.    Cousin,  I  tell  you,  if  you'll  only  hear  me, 

I  lov'd  no  woman  while  I  was  at  college  — 

Save  one,  and  her  I  fancied  ere  I  went  there. 
Helen.    Indeed!   {aside)  Now  I'll  retreat,  if  he's  advancing. 

Comes  he  not  on!    0  what  a  stock's  the  man? 

Well,  cousin? 


—     175     — 

Modus.  Well!     What  more  vvould'st  have  me  say, 

I  think  I've  said  enough. 
Helen.  And  so  think  I. 

I  did  but  jest  with  you.     You  are  not  angry? 

Shake  hands!    Why,  cousin,  do  you  squeeze  me  soV 
Modus.   {Utting  her  go)  I  swear  I  squeezed  you  not! 
Helen.    You  did  not? 
Modus.  No!  I'll  die  if  I  did! 

Helen.    Why  then  you  did  not,  cou.sin. 

So  let's  shake  hands  again  —  (he  takes  her  hand  timidly; 
she  loohs  at  him  for  a  minute,  then  pettishly  strikes  his 
hand  down)  0,  go  and  now 

Bead  Ovid!  {going  off,  but  returns)  Cousin,  will  you  tell 
me  one  thing. 

Wore  lovers  niifs  in  Master  Ovid's  time? 

Behov'd  him  teach  them,  then,  to  put  them  on ;  — 

And  that  you  have  to  learn.     Hold  up  your  head! 

Why,  cousin,  how  you  blush.     Plague  on  the  ruff! 

I  cannot  give't  a  set.     You're  blushing  still! 

Why  do  you  blush,  dear  cousin?  So!  —  'twill  beat  me! 

I'll  give  it  up. 
Modus.  Nay,  prithee  don't  —  try  on! 

Helen.   And  if  I  do,  I  fear  you'll  think  me  bold. 
Modus.   For  what? 

Helen.  To  trust  my  face  so  near  to  thine. 

Modus.    I  know  not  what  you  mean. 
Helen.  I'm  glad  you  don't! 

Cousin,  I  own  right  well  behaved  you  are, 

Most  marvellously  well  behaved!     They've  bred 

You  well  at  college.     With  another  man 

My  lips  would  be  in  danger!    Hang  the  ruff! 
Modus.    Nay,  give  it  up,  nor  plague  thyself,  dear  cousin. 
Helen.    Dear  fool!     (throws   the  ruff  on  the  ground)    I  swear 
the  ruff  is  good  for  just 

As  little  as  its  master!    There!  —  'tis  spoiled  — 

You'll  have  to  get  another.    Hie  for  it. 

And  wear  it  in  the  fashion  of  a  wisp, 

Ere  I  adjust  it  for  thee !    Farewell,  cousin ! 

You'd  need  to  study  Ovid's  Art  of  Love. 

Exit  Helen. 

The  Wife,  a  Tale  of  Mantua,  seems  to  have  been 
suggested  by  Massinger's  Duke  of  Milan,  though  the  two 
pieces  differ  widely  in  the  details.  Leonardo  Gonzaga, 
the  rightful  Duke  of  Mantua,  when  wandering  through 
Switzerland,  was  rescued  "from  beneath  an  avalanche, 
the  sole  survivor  of  a  company",  by  Mariana's  father, 
and  the  young  girl,  ignorant  of  his  rank,  and  knowing 


—     176    ~ 

only  that  he  had  come  from  Mantua,   learned  to  love 
him  while  attending  his  sick-bed: 
Mariana.  I  loved  indeed!  If  I  but  nursed  a  flower 

Which  to  the  ground  the  wind  and  rain  had  beaten. 
That  flower  of  all  our  garden  was  my  pride: 
What  then  was  he  to  me,  for  whom  I  thought 
To  make  a  shroud,  when,  tending  on  him  still 
With  hope,  that,  baffled  still,  did  still  keep  up; 
I  saw,  at  last,  the  ruddy  dawn  of  health 
Begin  to  mantle  o'er  his  pallid  form, 
And  glow  and  glow  —  till  forth  at  last  it  burst 
Into  confirmed,  broad,  and  glorious  day! 

The  traveller,  restored  to  health,  returns  home,  and 
leaves  for  Mariana  an  aching  void  behind: 

Mar.  Cot,  garden,  vineyard,  rivulet,  and  wood, 

Lake,  sky,  and  mountain,  went  along  with  him! 

Could  I  remain  behind?  My  father  found 

My  heart  was  not  at  home;  he  loved  his  child, 

And  asked  me,  one  day,  whither  we  should  go  ? 

I  said:    ''To  Mantua".    I  followed  him 

To  Mantua!  to  breathe  the  air  he  breathed. 

To  walk  upon  the  ground  lie  walked  upon. 

To  look  upon  the  things  he  looked  upon, 

To  look,  perchance,  on  him!   percliance  to  hear  him, 

To  touch  him!  never  to  be  known  to  him. 

Till  he  was  told  I  lived  and  died  his  love! 

Mariana  meets  with  her  princely  lover  in  Mantua, 
and  is  made  by  him  the  sharer  of  his  ducal  tlirone,  to 
the  great  chagrin  of  his  cousin,  Fernando  Gonzaga,  the 
heir  to  the  ducal  dignity.  Taking  advantage  of  the 
absence  of  the  Duke  on  a  warlike  expedition,  the  un- 
worthy Fernando  attempts  to  blast,  by  a  vile  machi- 
nation, the  fair  fame  of  the  young  Duchess.  For  this 
purpose  he  throws  in  Mariana's  way  a  handsome  young 
Swiss  adventurer,  whom  he  has  made  his  secretary, 
and  who,  though  now  calling  himself  Julian  St.  Pierre, 
finally  turns  out  to  be  Mariana's  brother  Ambrose,  a 
wild  youth,  who  had  left  his  home  when  Mariana  was 
still  a  child  in  the  cradle.  The  young  man  half  suspects 
who  Mariana  is,  but  she  has  no  recollection  of  him; 
and  attributes  the  pleasure  she  finds  in  her  intercourse 
with  him  to  the  reminiscences  of  her  native  land  which 
he  awakes: 


177     — 

.iuliau  St.  Pierre.  —  It  is 

The  land  of  beauty,  and  of  grandeiu',  lady, 
Where  looks  the  cottage  out  on  a  domain 
The  palace  cannot  boast  of.     Seas  of  lakes, 
And  hills  of  forests !  crystal  waves  that  rise 
'Midst  mountains  all  of  snow,  and  mock  the  sun, 
Retuniing-  him  his  flaming  beams  more  thick 
And  radiant  than  he  sent  them.  —  Torrents,  there. 
Are  bounding  floods!    And  there  the  tempest  roams 
At  large,  in  all  the  terrors  of  its  glory! 
And  then  our  valleys!  Ah,  they  are  the  homes 
For  hearts !  Our  cottages,  our  vineyards,  orchards !  — 
Om*  pastui'es,  studded  with  the  herd  and  fold! 
Our  native  strains,  that  melt  us  as  we  sing  them  I 
A  free  —  a  gentle  —  simple  —  honest  people ! 

Julian  is  plied  by  Fernando  with  intoxicating-  drinks, 
and  then  carried,  in  an  unconscious  state,  into  a  chamber 
adjoining  that  of  the  Duchess,  where  he  is  discovered 
by  the  household  servants  the  next  morning.  But  the 
I'uin  of  Mariana  is  not  yet  secured,  in  spite  of  this 
accusatory  discovery,  and  Fernando  summons  Julian  to 
his  presence  to  give  him  his  further  instructions.  These 
Julian  desires  to  have  in  writing,  pleading  the  weakness 
of  his  memory,  and  at  length,  partly  by  address,  partly 
by  intimidation,  obtains  from  Fernando  what  is  equi- 
valent to  a  confession  of  his  guilt,  signed  by  his  own 
hand.  Duke  Leonardo  is  still  with  his  army,  and  Fer- 
nando carries  off  the  Duchess  as  a  prisoner  to  the 
encampment,  where,  in  the  presence  of  the  Duke,  lie 
endeavours  to  substantiate  against  her  the  charge  of 
infidelity.  Leonardo  refuses  to  admit  the  truth  of  the 
accusation:  and  a  moment  afterwards  Julian  arrives 
hot  and  dusty,  places  in  the  Duke's  hand  the  papers 
proving  Fernando's  treachery,  and  then  falls  to  the 
ground  mortally  wounded  by  a  thrust  of  the  traitor's 
sword.  Before  he  dies,  he  has  still  strength  left  to  make 
himself  known  to  Mariana  as  her  brother  Ambrose. 

Of  Mr.  Knowles's  comedies,  the  most  successful  is 
the  Love- Chase.  The  scene  is  London,  and  the  leading 
characters  are  Constance  and  Wildrake,  a  pair  of  lovers, 
who,  like  Beatrice  and  Benedick,  affect  a  mutual  aversion, 
but  are  at  last  brought  to  understand  themselves  and 

12 


—     178     — 

each  other  by  a  friendly  stratagem  on  the  part  of 
Trueman,  who  explains  in  the  following  terms  to  Con- 
stance's father,  how  he  proposes  to  proceed: 

UnUke  other  common  flowers, 

The  flower  of  love  shows  various  in  the  bud; 

'Twill  look  a  thistle,  and  'twill  blow  a  rose! 

And  with  your  leave,  I'll  put  it  to  the  test; 

Affect,  myself,  for  thy  fair  daughter  love  — 

Make  him  my  confidant  —  dilate  to  him 

Upon  the  graces  of  her  heart  and  mind. 

Feature  and  form  —  that  well  may  comment  bear  ~ 

Till  —  like  the  practised  connoisseur,  who  finds 

A  gem  of  art  out  in  a  household  picture 

The  unskill'd  owner  held  so  cheap  he  grudged 

Renewal  of  the  chipp'd  and  tarnish'd  frame, 

But  values  now  as  priceless  —  I  arouse  him 

Into  a  quick  sense  of  the  worth  of  that 

Wliose  merit  hitherto,  from  lack  of  skill, 

Or  dulling  habit  of  acquaintanceship 

He  has  not  been  awake  to. 

The  comic  effect  of  the  piece  is  greatly  heightened 
by  the  scene,  in  which  the  elderly  Widow  Green,  im- 
agining that  young  Waller's  attentions  to  her  humble 
companion,  Lydia,  are  addressed  to  herself,  tries  to 
make  him  jealous  of  the  antiquated  beau,  Sir  W.  Fond- 
love,  who,  on  his  side,  is  equally  certain  that  the  Widow 
is  pining  for  him. 

Of  Mr.  Knowles's  other  plays,  Alfred  the  Great^ 
and  John  of  Procida  (based  on  the  Sicilian  Vespers), 
obtained  a  certain,  though  an  inferior  degree  of  success ; 
and  the  same  may  be  said  of  his  two  comedies.  Love, 
and  the  Secretary,  in  both  of  which  the  subject  is  the 
love  of  a  humble  subordinate  for  his  patroness.  The 
Beggar  of  Bethnal  Green,  founded  on  the  old  popular 
ballad,  was  an  acknowledged  failure;  di>Yi&  the  Daughter, 
a  tale  of  the  wreckers  of  Cornwall,  as  the  inhuman 
wretches  were  called,  who  made  a  trade  of  plundering 
and  sometimes  murdering  shipwrecked  voyagers,  though 
containing  some  very  effective  scenes,  could  not  keep 
its  place  on  the  stage.  Another  piece,  the  Rose  of 
Arragon,  resembles  rather  too  closely  the  Wife;  and 
Woman s  Wit;  or,  Love's  Disguises,   the  idea  of  which 


—     179     — 

i^eems  borrowed  from  Mrs  Centlivre's  Bold  Stroke  for 
a  Wife,  is  decidedly  too  full  of  masquerading. 

Of  Mr.  Knowles,  the  Athenaeum  (Feb.  1847)  says, 
that  he  is  "a  writer  as  full  of  individuality  as  of  ge- 
niality, who  has  been  popular  without  coarse  conception, 
and  received  as  a  poet  without  making  any  extra- 
ordinary pretensions.  The  first  and  last  cause  of  his 
well-deserved  popularity,  as  a  dramatist,  is  the  hearti- 
ness of  his  writings.  The  heart  which  Mr.  Knowles 
puts  into  his  work  lays  hold  of  the  hearts  of  his  public ; 
and  this  is  his  secret." 

Among  the  dramatists  of  the  period,  no  mean  place 
must  be  assigned  to 

Lord  Lytton. 

Lord  Lytton's  most  popular  play  is  unquestionably 
the  Lady  of  Lyons,  founded  on  the  old  French  story  of 
Perourou,  or  the  Bellows- Mender.  Claude  Melnotte,  the 
hero,  though  only  a  well-to-do  gardener's  son,  loves 
Pauline  Deschapelles,  a  rich  merchant's  proud  daughter, 
and  in  "the  ambition  to  be  worthier"  of  her,  makes 
himself  master  of  several  accomplishments  usually  looked 
on  as  the  appanage  of  the  wealthier  classes.  He  sends 
the  lady  his  rarest  flowers,  and  encouraged  by  observing 
that  she  wears  them,  though  ignorant  of  the  quarter 
whence  they  come,  he  ventures  to  address  her  in  some 
verses  signed  with  his  name.  In  one  of  the  early  scenes, 
his  friend  and  messenger,  Gaspar,  returns  to  report  how 
this  tribute  of  devotion  has  been  received: 

{Enter  Gaspar). 

3Felnotte.  Welcome,  Gaspar,  welcome.  Where  is  the  letter? 
Why  do  you  turn  away,  man?  Where  is  the  letter?  {Gaspar 
gives  him  one).  This !  this  is  mine,  the  one  I  intrusted  to  thee. 
Didst  thou  not  leave  it? 

( i  a  s  p  a  r.    Yes.   I  left  it. 

Mel.    My  own  verses  returned  to  me.    Nothing  else! 

G  a  s.  Thou  wilt  be  proud  to  hear  how  thy  messenger  was  honoured. 
For  thy  sake,  Melnotte,  I  have  borne  that  which  no  French- 
man can  bear  without  disgrace. 

Mel.    Disgrace,  Gaspar!  Disgrace? 

Oas.  I  gave  thy  letter  to  the  porter,  who  passed  it  from  lackey 
to  lackey  till  it  reached  the  lady  it  was  meant  for. 

12* 


—     180    — 

HpI.     It  reached  her,   then;  —  you  are  sure   of  that!   It  reached 

her,  —  well,  well! 
(las.     It  reached  her,   and  was  returned  to  me  with  blows.     Dost 

hear,  Melnotte?  with  blows!   Death!   are  we  slaves  still,   that 

we  are  to  be  thus  dealt  with,  we  peasants? 
Mel.  With  blows?  No,  Gaspar,  no;  not  blows! 
Gas.     I  could  show  thee  the  marks  if  it  were  not  so  deep  a  shame 

to  bear  them.   The  lackey  who  tossed  thy  letter  into  the  raire 

swore  that  his  lady  and  her  mother  never  were   so  insulted. 

What  could  thy  letter  contain,  Claude? 
M  e  1.     Not  a  line  that  a  serf  might  not  have  written  to  an  empress. 

No,  not  one. 
(i  U.S.    They  promise  thee  the  same  greeting  they  gave  me,  if  thou 

\vilt  pass  that  way.     Shall  we  endure  this,  Claude? 
M  ('  1.     Forgive  me,  the  fault  was  mine,  I  have  brought  this  on  thee ; 

I  will  not  forget  it;  thou  shalt  be  avenged!  The  heartless  in- 
solence ! 
(las.     Thou  art  moved,   Melnotte;   think  not  of  me;   I  would  go 

through  fire   and  water  to  serve  thee;   but,  —  a  blow!   It  is 

not  the  bruise  that  galls,  —  it  is  the  blush,  Melnotte. 
Mei.    Say,  what  message?  How  insulted?  —  "WTierefore ?  —  What 

the  offence? 
( i  a  s.     Did  you  not  write  to  Pauline  Deschapelles,  the  daughter  of 

the  rich  merchant? 
Mel.     Well?  - 
Gas.     And  are  you  not  a  peasant  —  a  gardener's  son?   that  was 

the  offence.    Sleep  on  it,  Melnotte.    Blows  to  a  French  citizen, 

blows ! 

While  Melnotte  is  tliirsting  for  revenge,  but  still 
v^truggKng  with  love,  a  letter  reaches  hiin  from  Beaii- 
seant,  a  rejected  suitor  of  Pauline's,  in  which  he  hnds 
the  mysterious  words: 

I  can  secure  to  thee  the  realization  of  thy  most  sanguine 
hopes:  and  the  sole  condition  I  ask  in  return  is,  that  thou  shalt 
be  steadfast  to  thine  own  ends.  I  shall  demand  from  thee  a  solemn 
oath  to  marry  her  whom  thou  lovest;  to  bear  her  to  thine  home 
on  thy  wedding  night.  I  am  serious  —  if  thou  wouldst  learn  more, 
lose  not  a  moment,  but  follow  the  bearer  of  this  letter. 

In  the  next  act,  we  find  Melnotte  an  honoured  guest 
in  the  Deschapelles  family,  to  which  he  has  been  in- 
troduced by  Beauseant  as  the  Prince  of  Como,  having 
been  previously  furnished  by  him  and  his  friend  Glavis, 
another  luckless  lover  of  Pauline's,  with  everything 
necessary  to  support  the  assumed  dignity.  He  now 
wooes  and  soon  wins  Pauline.  On  one  occasion  she  desires 
to  hear   from  him   a  description  of  his  palace   by   tlie 


—     181     — 

Lake  of  Como.  Evading  her  request,  while  he  ap- 
pears to  fulfil  it.  Melnotte  seizes  the  opportunity,  to 
discover  what  are  lier  real  feelings  towards  him: 

Mel.    Nay,  dearest,  nay,  if  thou  wouldst  have  me  paint 
The  home  to  which,  could  love  fulfil  its  prayers, 
This  hand  would  lead  thee,  listen!  —  A  deep  vale 
Shut  out  hy  Alpine  hills  from  the  rude  world 
Near  a  clear  lake,  margin'd  hy  fruits  of  gold 
And  whispering  myrtles;  glassing-  softest  skies. 
As  cloudless,  save  with  rare  and  roseate  shadows 
As  I  would  have  thy  fate! 

Taul.    My  own  dear  love! 

Mel.     A  palace  lifting  to  eternal  summer 

Its  marble  walls,  from  out  a  glossy  bower 
Of  coolest  foliage  musical  with  birds, 
AVliose  songs  shall  syllable  thy  name!  At  noon 
We'd  sit  beneath  the  arching  vines,  and  wonder 
Why  Earth  could  be  unhappy,  while  the  Heavens 
Still  left  us  youth  and  love!  We'd  have  no  friends 
That  were  not  lovers;  no  ambition,  save 
To  excel  them  all  in  love;  we'd  read  no  books 
That  were  not  tales  of  love  —  that  we  might  smile 
To  think  how  poorly  eloquence  of  words 
rranslates  the  poetry  of  hearts  like  ours! 
And  when  night  came,  amidst  the  breathless  Heavens 
We'd  guess  what  star  should  be  our  home  when  love 
Becomes  immortal;  while  the  perfumed  light 
Stole  through  the  mists  of  alabaster  lamps. 
And  every  air  was  heavy  with  the  sighs 
Of  orange-groves  and  music  from  sweet  lutes, 
And  murmurs  of  low  fountains  that  gush  forth 
I'  the  midst  of  roses!  Dost  thou  like  the  picture? 

I'aul.     Oh,  as  the  bee  upon  the  flower,  I  hang 
Upon  the  honey  of  thy  eloquent  tongue! 
Am  I  not  blest?  And  if  I  love  too  wildly. 
Who  would  not  love  thee  like  Pauline? 

Mel,    (Utterly).  Oh,  false  one! 

It  is  the  prince  thou  lovest,  not  the  man: 
If  in  the  stead  of  luxiuy,  pomp,  power, 
I  had  painted  poverty,  and  toil,  and  care. 
Thou  hadst  found  no  honey  on  my  tongue;  —  Pauline, 
That  is  not  love! 

Paul.    Thou  wrongest  me,  cruel  Prince! 

At  first,  in  truth,  I  might  not  have  been  won, 

Save  through  the  weakness  of  a  flatter'd  pride; 

But  now,  —  oh,  trust  me,  —  could'st  thou  fall  from  power 

And  sink  — 

Mel.  As  low  as  that  poor  gardener's  son, 

Who  dared  to  lift  his  eyes  to  thee? 


—     182     — 

Paul.  Even  tlien, 

Methinks  thou  would'st  be  only  made  more  dear 
By  the  sweet  thought  that  I  could  prove  how  deep 
Is  woman's  love!  We  are  like  the  insects,  caught 
By  the  poor  glittering  of  a  garish  flame; 
But,  oh,  the  wings  once  scorch'd,  the  brightest  star 
Lures  us  no  more;  and  by  the  fatal  light 
We  cling  till  death! 

Mel.    Angel!  (Aside).  0  conscience!  conscience! 

Though  now  tortured  by  remorse,  Melnotte  fulfils 
the  conditions  of  his  oath,  and  conducts  his  young  bride, 
not  to  the  imaginary  palace  on  the  Lake  of  Como,  but 
to  the  humble  cottage  of  his  mother.  Of  his  authority 
as  a  husband  he  makes  no  other  use  than  to  protect 
her  from  the  triumphant  insults  of  Beauseant,  and  having 
announced  to  the  injured  Pauline  his  firm  resolution  to 
restore  her  to  her  father  on  the  morrow,  he  confides 
her  for  the  night  to  the  care  of  his  mother: 

Paul.  No,  touch  me  not! 

I  know  my  fate.    You  are,  by  law,  my  tyrant; 

And  I  —  0  Heaven!  a  peasant's  wife!  I'll  work  — 

Toil  —  drudge  —  do  what  thou  wilt  —  but  touch  me  not: 

Let  my  wrongs  make  me  sacred! 

Mel,  Do  not  fear  me. 

Thou  dost  not  know  me,  madam;  at  the  altar 

My  vengeance  ceased  —  my  guilty  oath  expired! 

Henceforth,  no  image  of  some  marble  saint, 

Niched  in  cathedral  aisles,  is  hallow'd  more 

From  the  rude  hand  of  sacrilegious  wrong. 

I  am  thy  husband  —  nay,  thou  need'st  not  shudder;  — 

Here,  at  thy  feet,  I  lay  a  husband's  rights. 

A  marriage  thus  unholy  —  unfulfiU'd  — 

A  bond  of  fraud  —  is,  by  the  laws  of  France, 

Made  void  and  null.    To-night  sleep  —  sleep  in  peace. 

To-morrow,  pure  and  virgin  as  this  morn 

I  bore  thee,  bathed  in  blushes,  from  the  shrine, 

Thy  father's  arms  shall  take  thee  to  thy  home. 

The  law  shall  do  thee  justice,  and  restore 

Thy  right  to  bless  another  with  thy  love. 

And  when  thou  art  happy,  and  hast  half  forgot 

Hira  who  so  loved  —  so  wrong'd  thee,  think  at  least 

Heaven  left  some  remnant  of  the  angel  still 

In  that  poor  peasant's  nature!   Ho!  my  mother! 

Melnotte  sets  out  for  the  army,  in  company  with  the 
eccentric  old  officer  Damas,  a  connexion  of  the  Deschap- 


—     183     — 

pelles  family,  who  becomes  the  friend  of  the  gardener's 
son,  though  he  had  been  the  enemy  of  the  Prince;  and 
for  two  years  and  a  half  nothing  is  heard  of  either  of 
them.  In  the  mean  time  the  merchant  Deschappelles 
lias  met  with  heavy  losses,  and  on  the  day  that  Damas 
returns  as  General,  and  Melnotte  as  Colonel,  they  learn 
that  Pauline,  to  save  her  father  from  bankruptcy,  is 
about  to  give  her  hand  to  Beauseant,  who  exacts  this 
sacrifice  as  the  price  of  the  pecuniary  aid  he  offers. 
Damas,  being  invited  to  the  wedding,  takes  Melnotte 
with  him,  under  the  name  of  Colonel  Morier,  and  apprises 
Pauline,  in  a  whisper,  that  Morier  is  Melnotte's  intimate 
friend.  AVhile  the  others  are  engaged  with  the  marriage 
contract,  she  approaches  the  stranger,  who  turns  from 
lier  with  averted  gaze: 

Paul.    Thrice  have  I  sought  to  speak;  ray  courage  fails  me. 
Sir,  is  it  true  that  you  have  known  —  nay,  are 
The  friend  of  —  Melnotte  ? 

Mel.  Lady,  yes!  —  Myself 

And  misery  know  the  man! 

Paul.  And  you  will  see  him, 

And  you  will  bear  to  him  —  ay  —  word  for  word, 
All  that  this  heart,  which  breaks  in  parting  from  him, 
Would  send,  ere  still  for  ever? 

Mel.  He  hath  told  me 

You  have  the  right  to  choose  from  out  the  world 
A  worthier  bridegroom;  —  he  foregoes  all  claim. 
Even  to  murmur  at  his  doom.     Speak  on! 

Paul.     Tell  him  for  years  I  never  nursed  a  thought 
That  was  not  his;  —  that  on  his  wandering  way. 
Daily  and  nightly,  pour'd  a  mourner's  prayers. 
Tell  him  ev'n  now  that  I  would  rather  share 
His  lowliest  lot,  —  walk  by  his  side,  an  outcast,  — 
Work  for  him,  beg  with  him  —  live  upon  the  light 
Of  one  kind  smile  from  him  —  than  wear  the  crown 
The  Bourbon  lost! 

Beauseant,  with  the  bank-notes  in  his  hand,  ad- 
vances to  Deschappelles ,  and  informs  him ,  that  they 
are  his  the  moment  his  daughter  signs  the  marriage- 
contract.  The  Notary  is  about  to  hand  the  paper  to 
Pauline,  when  Melnotte  seizes  and  tears  it: 

Beaus.  Are  you  mad? 

Deschap.    How,  sir!  What  means  this  insult? 


—     184     — 

Mel.  Peace,  old  man! 

I  have  a  prior  claim.    Before  the  face 
Of  man  and  Heaven  I  urge  it;  I  outbid 
You  sordid  huckster  for  your  priceless  jewel. 

(Giving  a  pocket-book). 
There  is  the  sum  twice  told!  Blush  not  to  take  it: 
There's  not  a  coin  that  is  not  bought  and  hallow'd 
In  the  cause  of  nations  with  a  soldier's  blood! 

Beaus.    Toi-ments  and  death! 

Paul.  That  voice!   Thou  art  — 

Mel.  Thy  husband! 

{Pauline  rmhes  into  his  arms). 

The  Duchess  de  la  ValUere,  as  the  title  implies,  is 
founded  on  the  history  of  the  least  unworthy  of  the 
numerous  mistresses  of  Louis  XIV.,  who,  overcome  by 
shame  and  remorse,  withdrew  from  court,  and  closed 
her  life  in  a  Carmelite  convent.  This  piece  obtained 
only  a  partial  success  on  the  stage,  though  it  can 
boast  of  at  least  one  highly  elfective  scene  —  that  in 
which  the  King  encounters  Bragelone,  the  Duchess's 
former  lover,  whom  grief  and  despair  have  driven  to 
renounce  the  world,  and  to  become  a  monk: 

Louis.     Save  you,  father! 
Bragelone.    I  thank  thee,  son. 
Louis.    He  knows  me  not.    Well,  monk, 

Are  you  her  gTace's  almoner? 
Brage.  Sire,  no! 

Louis.    So  short,  yet  know  us? 
Brage.     Sire,  I  do.    You  are 

The  man  — 
Louis.     How,  priest!  —  the  man! 
Brage.  The  word  offends  you? 

The  king,  who  raised  a  maiden  to  a  duchess. 

That  maiden's  mother  was  a  stainless  matron: 

Her  heart  you  broke,  though  mother  to  a  duchess. 

That  maiden  was  afiianced  from  her  youth 

To  one  who  served  you  well  —  nay,  saved  your  Hfe: 

H  i  s  life  you  robb'd  of  all  that  gave  life  value ; 

And  yet  —  you  made  his  fair  betroth'd  a  duchess! 

You  are  that  king.    The  Avorld  proclaims  you  "Great;" 

A  million  warriors  bled  to  buy  your  laurels; 

A  million  peasants  starved  to  build  Versailles: 

Vour  people  famish;  but  your  court  is  splendid! 

I'riests  from  the  pulpit  bless  your  glorious  reign; 

Poets  have  sung  you  greater  than  Augustus; 

And  painters  placed  you  on  immortal  canvass. 


—     185    — 

Limn'd  as  the  Jove  whose  thunders  awe  the  world: 
]>ut  to  the  humhle  minister  of  Heaven, 
You  are  the  king  who  lias  betraj^'d  his  trust  — 
Beggar'd  a  nation  but  to  bloat  a  court. 
Seen  in  men's  lives  the  i)astime  to  ambition, 
Look'd  but  on  virtue  as  the  toy  for  vice; 
And,  for  the  first  time,  from  a  subject's  lips, 
Now  learns  the  name  he  leaves  to  Time  and  God! 

Louis.     Add  to  the  bead-roll  of  that  king's  offences, 
That  when  a  foul-mouthed  monk  assumed  the  rebel, 
The  monster-king  forgave  him.     Hast  thou  doner 

Brage.    Your  changing  hues  belie  your  royal  mien; 
111  the  high  monarch  veils  the  trembling  man! 

Louis.    Well,  you  are  privileged!  It  ne'er  was  said 
The  Fourteenth  Louis,  in  his  proudest  hour, 
BoAv'd  not  his  sceptre  to  the  Church's  crozier, 

Brage.     Alas!  the  Church!  'Tis  true,  this  garb  of  serge 
Dares  speech  that  daunts  the  ermine,  and  walks  free 
Where  stout  hearts  tremble  in  the  triple  mail.j 
But  wherefore?  —  Lies  the  virtue  in  the  robe, 
Which  the  moth  eats?  or  in  these  senseless  beads? 
Or  in  the  name  of  Priest?  The  Pharisees 
Had  priests  that  gave  their  Saviour  to  the  cross! 
No!  Ave  have  high  immunity  and  sanction, 
That  Truth  may  teach  humanity  to  Power, 
Glide  through  the  dungeon,  pierce  the  armed  throng, 
Awaken  Luxmy  on  her  Sybarite  couch, 
And,  startling  souls  that  slumber  on  a  throne, 
Bow  kings  before  that  priest  of  priests  —  the  Conscience! 

Louis  (aside).   An  awful  man !  —  unlike  the  reverend  crew 
Who  praise  my  royal  virtues  in  the  pulpit, 
And  —  ask  for  bishoprics  when  church  is  over! 

Brage.    This  makes  us  sacred.    The  profane  are  they 
Honouring  the  herald  while  they  scorn  the  mission. 
The  king  who  serves  the  Churcli,  yet  clings  to  Mammon: 
Who  fears  the  pastor,  but  forgets  the  flock; 
Who  bows  before  the  monitor,  and  yet 
Will  ne'er  forego  the  sin,  may  sink,  when  age 
Palsies  the  lust  and  deadens  "the  temptation. 
To  the  priest-ridden,  not  repentant,  dotard,  — 
For  pious  hopes  hail  superstitious  terrors, 
And  seek  some  sleek  Iscariot  of  the  Church. 
To  sell  salvation  for  the  thirty  pieces! 

Louis  (aside).    He  speaks  as  one  inspired! 

Brage.  Awake!  —  awake! 

Great  though  thou  art,  awake  thee  from  the  dream 
That  earth   was  made  for  kings  —  mankind  for  slaughter  — 
Woman  for  lust  —  the  people  for  the  palace! 
Dark  warnings  have  gone  forth;  along  the  air 
Lingers  the  crash  of  the  first  Charles's  throne : 


—     186    — 

Behold  the  yoimg,  the  fair,  the  haughty  king! 

The  kneeling  courtiers,  and  the  flattering  priests; 

Lo !  where  the  palace  rose,  behold  the  scaffold  — 

The  crowd  —  the  axe  —  the  headsman  —  and  the  victim! 

Lord  of  the  silver  lilies,  canst  thou  tell 

If  the  same  fate  await  not  thy  descendant! 

If  some  meek  son  of  thine  imperial  line 

May  make  no  brother  to  yon  headless  spectre ! 

And  when  the  sage  who  saddens  o'er  the  end 

Tracks  back  the  causes,  tremble,  lest  he  find 

The  seeds,  thy  wars,  thy  pomp,  and  thy  profusion, 

Sow'd  in  a  heartless  court  and  breadless  people. 

Grew  to  the  tree  from  which  men  shaped  the  scaffold,  — 

And  the  long  glare  of  thy  funereal  glories 

Light  unborn  monarchs  to  a  ghastly  grave! 

Beware,  proud  King!  the  Present  cries  aloud, 

A  prophet  to  the  future!  Wake!  —  beware!.  [ExU.) 

Richelieu;  or,  the  Conspiracy,  is  another  historical 
piece ,  which  closes  with  the  so-called  Day  of  Dupes, 
or  the  day  of  Richelieu's  triumph  over  all  the  enemies 
who  had  plotted  his  ruin.  An  increased  interest  is 
lent  to  this  drama  by  the  introduction  of  Julie  de 
Mortemar,  Eichelieu's  ward;  and  its  success  on  the 
stage  was  insured  by  the  admirable  performance  of 
Mr.  and  Miss  Vandenhoif,  in  the  respective  characters 
of  Richelieu  and  Julie.  The  mixed  character  of  the 
}>Teat  Cardinal,  with  all  its  bright  and  dark  traits,  is 
skilfully  portrayed  in  the  soliloquy  at  the  beginning  of 
the  third  act.  We  quote  a  few  of  the  most  striking 
passages : 

Richelieu.     "In  silence,  and  at  night,  the  Conscience  feels 
That  life  should  soar  to  nobler  ends  than  Power." 
So  sayest  thou,  sage  and  sober  moralist! 
But  wert  thou  tried?  Sublime  Philosophy, 
Tliou  art  the  Patriarch's  ladder,  reaching  heaven, 
And  bright  with  beck'ning  angels  —  but,  alas! 
We  see  thee,  like  the  Patriarchs,  but  in  dreams, 
By  the  first  step  —  dull-slumbering  on  the  eartli. 
I  am  not  happy!  —  with  the  Titan's  lust, 
I  woo'd  a  goddess,  and  I  clasp  a  cloud. 

*  * 

O  ye,  whose  hour-glass  shifts  its  tranquil  sands 
Ih  the  unvex'd  silence  of  a  student's  cell; 
Ye,  wliose  untempted  hearts  have  never  tossM 
Upon  the  dark  and  stormy  tides  where  life 


—     187     — 

Gives  battle  to  the  elements,  —  and  man 

Wrestles  with  man  for  some  slight  plank,  whose  weight 

Will  bear  but  one  —  while  round  the  desperate  wretch 

The  hungry  billows  roar  —  and  the  fierce  Fate, 

Like  some  huge  monster,  dim-seen  through  the  surf. 

Waits  him  who  drops;  —  ye  safe  and  formal  men, 

Who  write  the  deeds,  and  Avitli  unfeverish  hand 

Weigh  in  nice  scales  the  motives  of  the  Great, 

Ye  cannot  know  what  ye  have  never  tried! 

History  preserves  alone  the  flesh  less  bones 

Of  what  we  are  —  and  by  the  mocking  skull 

The  would-be  wise  pretend  to  guess  the  features! 

Without  the  roundness  and  the  glow  of  life 

How  hidecms  is  the  skeleton!  Without 

The  colourings  and  humanities  that  clothe 

Our  errors,  the  anatomists  of  schools 

Can  make  our  memory  hideous! 

I  have  wrought 
Great  uses  out  of  evil  tools  —  and  they 
In  the  time  to  come  may  bask  beneath  the  light 
Which  I  have  stolen  from  the  angry  gods, 
And  warn  their  sons  against  the  glorious  theft. 
Forgetful  of  the  darkness  which  it  broke. 
I  have  shed  blood  —  but  I  have  had  no  foes 
Save  those  the  State  had  —  if  my  wrath  was  deadly, 
'Tis  that  I  felt  my  country  in  my  veins, 
And  smote  her  sons  as  Brutus  smote  his  own. 
And  yet  I  am  not  happy  —  blanch'd  and  sear'd 
Before  my  time  —  breathing  an  air  of  hate. 
And  seeing  daggers  in  the  eyes  of  men. 
And  wasting  powers  that  shake  the  thrones  of  earth 
In  contest,  with  the  insects  —  bearding  kings 
And  braved  by  lackies  —  murder  at  my  bed; 
And  lone  amidst  the  multitudinous  web. 
With  the  dread  Three  —  that  are  the  Fates  who  hold 
The  woof  and  shears  —  the  Monk,  the  Spy,  the  Headsman. 
And  this  is  power?  Alas!  I  am  not  happy. 

Richelieu's  chief  enemies,  the  favourite  Baradas, 
and  Gaston  of  Orleans,  the  King's  brother,  while  bent 
on  removing  the  Cardinal  by  any  means,  assassination 
not  excepted,  are  at  the  same  time  endeavouring,  by 
tampering  mth  the  army  and  confederating  secretly 
with  the  Spanish  enemy,  to  depose  the  King,  and  to 
proclaim  Gaston  regent  of  the  kingdom.  These  manoeuwes 
are  well  known  to  Richelieu,  but  for  the  time  being, 
the  conspirators  have  gained  the  ear  of  the  weak  and 
iickle   Louis,    and   it   is   only   under   the   pretence  of 


—     188     — 

resigning  his  office,  and  taking  leave  of  the  King,  as 
a  "dying  servant"  that  he  is  allowed  to  appear  in  the 
royal  presence.  Once  here  he  soon  finds  an  opportunity 
of  exposing  the  incapacity  and  treason  of  Baradas  and 
his  accomplices: 

Richelieu.    You  would  consign  your  armies  to  the  baton 

Of  your  most  honoured  brother.     Sire,  so  be  it! 

Your  minister,  the  Count  de  Baradas; 

A  most  sagacious  choice!  —  Your  Secretaries 

Of  State  attend  me,  Sire,  to  render  up 

The  ledgers  of  a  realm.    I  do  beseech  you. 

Suffer  these  noble  gentlemen  to  learn 

The  nature  of  the  glorious  task  that  waits  them 

Here,  in  my  presence. 
Louis.     You  say  well,  my  lord. 

The  Secretaries  advance  to  read  their  reports; 
while  Baradas  and  Orleans  observe  the  seemingly 
moribund  Richelieu  with  ill  concealed  triumph: 

First  Sec.  The  affairs  of  Portugal, 

Most  urgent,  Sire:  One  short  month  since  the  Duke 
Braganza  was  a  rebel. 

Louis.     And  is  still. 

First  Sec.  No,  Sire,  he  has  succeeded!  He  is  now 
Crown' d  King  of  Portugal  —  craves  instant  succour 
Against  the  arms  of  Spain. 

Louis.  We  wUl  not  grant  it 

Against  his  lawful  king.    Eh,  Count? 

Bar.  No,  Sire. 

First  Sec.    But  Spain's  your  deadliest  foe:  whatever 

Can  weaken  Spain  must  strengthen  France.    The  Cardinal 
Would  send  the  succours:  —  balance.  Sire,  of  Europe! 

Louis.    The  Cardinal!  —  balance!  —  We'll  consider.  —  Eh,  Count? 

Bar.    Yes,  Sir;  —  fall  back! 

First  Sec.  But  — 

Bar.  Oh!  fall  back,  Sir. 

Second  Sec.    The  affairs  of  England,  Sire,  most  urgent:  Charles 
The  First  has  lost  a  battle  that  decides 
One  half  his  realm,  —  craves  moneys,  Sire,  and  succour. 

Louis.    He  shall  have  both.  —  Eh,  Baradas? 

Bar.  Yes,  Sire. 

Rich,  {feebly,  but  with  great  distinctness.)     "My  liege. 
Forgive  me  —  Charles's  cause  is  lost!  A  man, 
Named  Cromwell,  risen  —  a  great  man!  —  your  succour 
Would  fail  —  your  loans  be  squander'd!  —  Pause  —  reflect! 

Louis.    Reflect  —  Eh,  Baradas? 

Bar.    Reflect,  Sire. 


—     189     — 

Louis  [aside).    I  half  repent!  —  No  successor  to  Kichelieu!  — 
Round  me  thrones  totter!  —  dynasties  dissolve!  — 
The  soil  he  i^uards  alone  escapes  the  eartliquake! 

While  the  third  Secretary  produces  t li  e  s  e  c r  e  t  c  o  r  r  e- 
spoudence,  and  alarms  Louis  witli  accounts  of  schemes 
against  himself,  Richelieu's  faithful  page,  Francois,  is 
introduced  by  the  Cardinal's  confidant,  the  Capuchin 
Joseph,  and  places  in  Richelieu's  hands  a  document, 
which  lie  had  taken  by  force  from  De  Beringhen,  one 
of  the  conspirators.  The  Secretary  continues  his  report : 

Third  Sec.  Sire,  the  Spaniards 

Have  reinforced  their  army  on  the  frontiers. 

The  Due  de  Bouillon  — 
liirh.  Hold!  —  in  this  department  — 

A  paper  —  here,  Sire  —  read  yourself  —  then  take 

The  Counts  advice  in't. 
Louis  {reading}.    To  Bouillon  —  and  sign'd  Orleans!  — 

Baradas,  too!  —  league  with  oiu'  foes  of  Spain!  — 

Lead  our  Italian  armies  --  what!  to  Paris!  — 

Captui'e  the  King-  —  my  health  requires  repose  — 

Make  me  subscribe  my  proper  abdication  — 

Orleans,  my  brother,  Regent!  Saints  of  Heaven! 

These  are   the  men  I  loved! 

(Baradas  attempts  to  rush  outj  is  arrested.) 
L  ou i s  (rtishing  to  RicheUeu).  Richelieu !  —  Lord  Cardinal !  —  'tis  I  resign ! 

Reign  thou! 
Rich,  (feebly).     With  absolute  power? 
Louis,  Most  absolute!  —  Oh!  live! 

If  not  for  me  —  for  France! 
Rich.  France! 

Louis.  Oh!  this  treason!  — 

The  army  —  Orleans  —  Bouillon  —  Heavens!  —  the  Spaniard!  — 

Where  wiU  they  be  next  week? 
Rich,  (starting  up.)  There,  —  at  my  feet! 

To  First  and  Second  Secretaries.) 

Ere  the  clock  strike!  —  the  Envoys  have  their  answer! 

(To  Third  Sec,  with  a  ring.) 

This  to  De  Chavigny  —  he  knows  the  rest  — 

No  need  of  parchment  here  —  he  must  not  halt 

For  sleep  —  for  food.  —  In  my  name  —  mine!  -—  he   will 

Arrest  the  Due  de  Bouillon  at  the  head 

Of  his  army!  —  Ho!  there,  Count  de  Baradas, 

Thou  hast  lost  the  stake!  Away  with  him! 

Of  Lord  Lytton's  comedies.  Not  so  bad  as  we  seem 
is  by  far  the  least  pleasing  and  interesting.  The  scene 
is  London,  and  the  date  the  reign  of  George  I.  There 


—     190     — 

are  two  peers  in  the  piece,  who  are  engaged  in  intrigues 
for  the  restoration  of  the  Stuarts;  but  the  principal 
character  is  Lady  Thornside,  a  married  woman,  who 
has  left  her  husband  in  consequence  of  his  groundless 
jealousy,  and  rather  strangely  taken  refuge  in  an  ill- 
famed  street,  called  Deadman's  Lane.  At  the  end  of 
the  piece,  the  lady  is  reconciled  to  her  husband  by  the 
instrumentality  of  her  daughter  Lucy.  Perhaps  the  best 
thing  in  the  comedy  is  young  Lord  Wilmot's  account 
of  how  he  had  obtained  from  Sir  Robert  Walpole,  the 
famous  Whig  minister  and  zealous  picture  -  collector, 
a  place  in  the  Treasury  for  his  friend  Hardman,  by 
bribing  the  great  man  with  a  Murillo.  A  vastly  superior 
dramatic  work  in  all  respects  is  Money;  in  which  the 
author  illustrates,  by  the  contemptuous  neglect  shown 
the  eccentric  but  thoroughly  estimable  Evelyn  when 
a  poor  man,  and  the  flattering  consideration  of  which 
he  becomes  the  object  as  a  rich  one,  how  powerfuUy 
most  men  are  influenced,  in  their  estimate  of  others, 
by  affluence  and  the  social  position  it  confers.  In  the 
opening  scene  we  are  introduced  to  Sir  John  Vesey, 
a  baronet  not  wealthy,  but  very  desirous  of  being 
thought  so,  and  his  daughter  Georgina,  who  is  supposed, 
though  erroneously,  to  be  the  heiress  of  an  uncle 
recently  deceased  in  India. 

{Georgina,  and  Sir  John  Vesey.) 

Geor.  And  you  really  feel  sure  that  poor  Mr.  Mordaunt  has  made 
me  his  heiress? 

Sir  J.  Ay,  the  richest  heiress  in  England.  Can  you  douht  itV 
Are  you  not  his  nearest  relation?  Niece  by  your  poor  mother, 
liis  own  sister.  All  the  time  he  was  making  this  enormous 
fortune  in  India,  did  we  ever  miss  sending  him  little  reminis- 
cences of  our  disinterested  aifection?  When  he  was  last  in 
England,  and  you  only  so  high,  was  not  my  house  his  home? 
Didn't  I  get  a  surfeit  out  of  complaisance  to  his  execrable 
curries  and  pillaws  ?  Didn't  he  smoke  his  hookah  —  nasty  old  — 
that  is,  poor  dear  man  —  in  my  best  drawing-room?  And  did 
you  ever  speak  without  calling  him  your  "handsome  uncle?" 
—  for  the  excellent  creature  was  as  vain  as  a  peacock,  — 

(re or.    And  so  ugly,  — 

Sir  J.  The  dear  deceased!  Alas  he  was,  indeed.  And  if,  after 
all  these  marks  of  attachment,  you  are  not  his  heiress,  why 


—     191     — 

then  the  finest  feelings  of  our  nature  —  the  ties  of  blood  —  the 
principles  of  justice  —  are  implanted  in  us  in  vain. 

( J  e  0  r.  Beautiful ,  sir.  Was  not  that  in  your  last  speech  at  the 
Freemasons'  Taveni  upon  the  great  Chimney-sweep  Question? 

Sir  J.  Clever  girl!  —  what  a  memory  she  has!  Sit  down,  Georgj'. 
Upon  this  most  happy  —  1  mean  melancholy  occasion,  I  feel  that 
1  may  trust  you  with  a  secret.  You  see  this  fine  house  —  our 
fine  servants  —  our  fine  plate  —  our  fine  dinners:  every  one  thinks 
Sir  John  Vesey  a  rich  man. 

<  J  e  o  r.     And  are  you  not,  papa  ? 

S  j  r  J.  Not  a  bit  of  it  —  all  humbug,  child  —  all  humbug,  upon  ray 
soul!  As  you  liazard  a  minnow  to  hook  in  a  trout,  so  one 
guinea  thrown  out  with  address  is  often  the  best  bait  for  a 
hundred.  There  are  two  rules  in  life  —  First,  Men  are  valued 
not  for  what  they  are,  but  what  they  seem  to  be.  Secondly,  If 
you  have  no  merit  or  money  of  your  own,  you  must  trade  on 
the  merits  and  money  of  other  people.  My  father  got  the  title 
by  services  in  the  army,  and  died  penniless.  On  the  strength 
of  his  services  I  got  a  pension  of  400  L.  a-year  —  on  the  strength 
of  400L.  a-year  I  took  credit  for  800 L. :  on  the  strength  of  800 L. 
a-year  I  married  your  mother  with  10,000  L.:  on  the  strength 
of  10,000  L.,  I  took  credit  for  40,000  L.,  and  paid  Dicky  Gossip 
three  guineas  a -week  to  go  about  everywhere  calling  me 
"Stingy  Jack!" 

Geor.     Ha!  Ha!    A  disagreeable  nickname. 

Sir  J.  But  a  valuable  reputation.  AVhen  a  man  is  called  stingy, 
it  is  as  much  as  calling  him  rich;  and  when  a  man's  called 
rich,  why  he's  a  man  universally  respected.  On  the  strength 
of  my  respectability  I  wheedled  a  constituency,  changed  my 
politics,  resigned  my  seat  to  a  minister,  who,  to  a  man  of  sucli 
stake  in  the  country,  could  offer  nothing  less  in  return  than  a 
patent  office  of  2,000L.  a-year.  That's  the  way  to  succeed  in 
life.    Humbug  my  dear!  —  all  humbug,  upon  my  soul! 

Geor.    I  must  say  that  you  — 

S  i  r  J.  Know  the  world,  to  be  sure.  Now,  for  your  fortune,  —  as 
I  spend  more  than  my  income,  1  can  have  nothing  to  leave  you ; 
yet,  even  without  counting  your  uncle,  you  have  always  passed 
for  an  heiress  on  the  credit  of  your  expectations  from  the  savings 
of  "Stingy  Jack."  The  same  with  your  education.  I  never 
grudged  anything  to  make  a  show  —  never  stuffed  your  head 
with  histories  and  homilies ;  but  you  draw,  you  sing,  you  dance, 
you  walk  well  into  a  room;  and  that's  the  way  young  ladies 
are  educated  now-a-days,  in  order  to  become  a  pride  to  their 
parents,  and  a  blessing  to  their  husband  —  that  is,  when  they 
have  caught  him.  A  propos  of  a  husband :  you  know  we  thought 
of  Sir  Frederick  Blount. 

Geor.    Ah,  papa,  he  is  charming. 

S  i  r  J.  He  w  a  s  s  0 ,  my  dear,  before  we  knew  your  poor  uncle  was 
dead;  but  an  heiress  such  as  you  will  be  should  look  out  for 
a  duke.  —  Where  the  deuce  is  Evelyn  this  morning  ? 


—     192     — 

Geor.  I've  not  seen  him,  papa.  What  a  strange  character  he  is  — 
so  sarcastic;  and  yet  he  can  be  agreeahle. 

S  i  r  J.  A  humorist  —  a  cynic !  one  never  knows  how  to  take  him. 
My  private  secretary,  —  a  poor  cousin,  —  has  not  got  a  shilling, 
and  yet,  hang  me ,  if  he  does  not  keep  us  all  at  a  sort  of  a 
distance. 

(re or.  But  why  do  you  take  him  to  live  with  us,  papa,  since 
there's  no  good  to  be  got  by  it? 

Sir  J.  There  you  are  WTong;  he  has  a  great  deal  of  talent:  pre- 
pares my  speeches,  writes  my  pamphlets,  looks  up  my  calculations. 
My  report  on  the  last  Commission  has  got  me  a  great  deal  of 
fame,  and  has  put  me  at  the  head  of  the  new  one.  Besides, 
he  is  our  cousin  —  he  has  no  salary :  kindness  to  a  poor  relation 
always  tells  well  in  the  world;  and  Benevolence  is  a  useful 
virtue,  —  particularly  when  you  can  have  it  for  nothing !  With 
our  other  cousin,  Clara,  it  was  different:  her  father  thought 
fit  to  leave  me  her  guardian,  though  she  had  not  a  penny  — 
a  mere  useless  incumbrance;  so,  you  see,  I  got  my  half-sister, 
Lady  Franklin,  to  take  her  off  my  hands. 

Geor.    How  much  longer  is  Lady  Franklin's  visit  to  be? 

Sir  J.  I  don't  know,  my  dear;  the  longer  the  better,  —  for  her 
husband  left  her  a  good  deal  of  money  at  her  own  disposal. 
Ah,  here  she  comes. 

In  another  scene  we  find  the  poor  relation  Evelyn, 
his  cousin  Clara  Douglas,  and  the  aristocratic  Sir 
Frederick  Blount,  a  gentleman  speaking  that  lisping 
dialect,  so  much  affected  by  fashionable  young  men,  in 
which  the  letter  r  is  alwaj's  superseded  by  a  w. 

Blount.  No  one  in  the  woom !  —  Oh,  Miss  Douglas!  —  Pway  don't 
let  me  disturb  me.    Where  is  Miss  Vesey  —  Georgina? 

{Taking  Claras  chair  as  she  rises.) 

Eve.  {looking  up,  gives  Clara  a  chair  and  re-seats  himself.)  [Aside.]  In- 
solent puppy! 

Clara.    Shall  I  tell  her  you  are  here,  Sir  Frederick? 

Blount     Not  for  the  world.     Vewy  pwetty  girl  this   companion! 

Clara.  What  did  you  tliink  of  the  Panorama  the  other  day. 
Cousin  Evelyn? 

Kve.  {reading).   — 

I  cannot  talk  with  civet  in  the  room, 
A  fine  puss  gentleman  that's  all  perfume! 
Rather  good  lines  these. 

Blount.     Sir! 

Eve.  {offering  the  book).     Don't  you  think  so?  —  Cowper. 

Blount,  {declining  the  book).     Cowper! 

Eve.    Cowper. 

Blount,  {shrugging  his  shoulders,  to  Clara).  Stwange  person,  Mr. 
Evelyn !  —  quite  a  chawacter !  —  Indeed  the  Panowama  gives 
you  no  idea  of  Naples  —  a  delightful  place.   I  make  it  a  wule 


—    193    — 

to  go  there  evewy  second  year.  I  am  vewy  fond  of  twavelling 
Yon'd  like  Wome  {Rome)  —  bad  inns,  but  vewy  fine  wuins 
gives  you  quite  a  taste  for  that  sort  of  thing ! 

K  V  e.  {reading). 

How  much  a  dunce  that  has  been  sent  to  roam 
Excels  a  dunce  that  has  been  kept  at  liome! 

Blount,  {aside).  That  fellow  Cowi3er  says  vewy  odd  things!  — 
Humph!  —  it  is  beneath  me  to  quawwel.  {Aloud.)  It  will  not 
take  long  to  wead  the  will,  I  suppose.  Poor  old  Mordaunt!  — 
I  am  his  nearest  male  Avelation.  He  was  vewy  eccentwic.  By 
the  way,  Miss  Douglas,  did  you  wemark  my  cuwickle?  It  is 
bwingiug  cuwickles  into  fashion.  I  should  be  most  happy  if 
you  will  allow  me  to  dwive  you  out.  Nay  —  nay  —  I  should 
upon  my  word.  (Trying  to  take  her  hand). 

K  V  e.  (starting  up).  A  wasp !  —  a  wasp !  —  just  going  to  settle. 
Take  care  of  the  wasp,  Miss  Douglas ! 

I'.lount.  A  wasp!  —  where?  —  don't  bwing  it  this  way,  some 
people  don't  mind  them!  I've  a  particular  dislike  to  wasps; 
they  sting  damnably. 

Eve.     I  beg  pardon  —  it's  only  a  gadfly. 

(Enter  Servant). 
8  e  r.    Sir  John  will  be  happy  to  see  you  in  his  study,  Sir  Frederick. 
Blount.    Vewy  well.    Upon  my  word,   there  is  something  vewy 
nice  about  this  girl. 

To  the  great  disappointment  of  nearer  relations, 
it  turns  out  that  the  deceased  nabob  has  made  poor 
Evelyn  his  residuary  legatee ;  and  now  Sir  John  forms 
all  sorts  of  schemes  to  bring  about  a  marriage  between 
Evelyn  and  his  daughter.  Though  the  real  object  of 
Evelyn's  attachment  is  Clara,  he  seems  to  meet  Sir 
John  half-way;  and  this  he  does  all  the  more  readily, 
as  he  has  had  a  misunderstanding  with  Clara.  Suspecting, 
however,  the  disinterestedness  of  Sir  John  and  Georgina, 
he  pretends  to  lose  the  greater  part  of  his  property 
at  the  gaming-table,  and  the  young  lady  forthwith  jilts 
liim,  and  accepts  the  hand  of  the  elegant  Blount.  Clara, 
too,  has  heard  of  Evelyn's  reverses,  but  on  the  contrary 
hastens  to  place  her  small  fortune  at  his  disposal.  The 
sequel  may  be  guessed.  EveWn  assures  his  future  bride, 
that  she  has  succeeded  where  wealth  had  failed;  for 
she  has  reconciled  him  to  the  world  and  to  mankind. 

In  1869  Lord  Lytton  surprised  the  literary  world 
with  a  comedy  in  rhyme,   entitled  Walpole;  or,   Every 

13 


—     194     — 

Man  has  his  Price,  a  well-constructed  and  amusing  piece 
in  the  dashing  anapaestic  metre.  The  principal  personages, 
besides  Walpole  himself,  are  the  fashionable  Sir  Sydney 
Bellairs,  his  charming  sister  Lucy,  and  Mr.  Selden  Blount. 
In  the  form  of  a  soliloquy  he  ingeniously  makes  the 
Minister  describe  his  own  character: 

I  wonder  what  lies  the  historians  will  tell 
"When  they  habble  of  one,  Robert  Walpole!   Well,  well; 
Let  them  sneer  at  his  blunders,  declaim  on  his  vices, 
Cite  the  rogues  whom  he  purchased,  and  rail  at  the  prices: 
The}-  shall  own  that  all  lust  for  revenge  he  withstood; 
And,  if  lavish  of  gold,  he  was  sparing  of  blood ; 
And  when  England  was  threatened  by  France  and  by  Rome, 
He  forced  Peace  from  abroad  and  encamped  her  at  home; 
And  the  freedom  he  left,  rooted  fiim  in  fair  laws. 
May  o'ershadow  the  faults  of  deeds  done  in  her  cause! 

Lord  Lytton,  at  his  death,  left  a  tragedy  in  manu- 
script behind  him,  founded  on  the  legend  of  Lucretia 
and  Tarquin,  and  entitled  "Brutus."  As  two  English 
plays  on  the  same  subject  already  existed  (Nathaniel 
Lee's  Lucius  Junius  Brutus,  and  Payne's  Brutus,  or  the 
Fall  of  Tarquin),  the  piece  was  successively  declined 
by  Mr.  Phelps  of  Sadler's  Wells  Theatre,  and  by 
Mr.  Irving  of  the  Lyceum ,  but  was  at  last  brought  on 
the  stage,  with  considerable  applause,  on  Feb.  26,  1885, 
by  Mr.  Wilson  Barrett  of  the  Princess's  Theatre,  under 
the  name  of  Junius,  or  the  Household  Gods.  Most  of 
the  critical  periodicals,  however,  reserved  their  judgment 
till  the  piece  should  have  appeared  in  print. 


Thomas  Noon  Talfourd. 

Mr.  Talfourd  has  left  us  four  tragedies.  Ion,  the 
Athenian  CaptivCj  the  Massacre  ofGlencoe,  and  the  Castilian. 
Ion,  the  hero  of  the  first-named  piece,  is  a  foundling 
youth,  educated  in  the  temple  of  Apollo,  in  Argos,  by 
the  High-Priest  Medon;  and,  exemplified  in  him,  the  reader 
of  Euripides  will  soon  detect  the  overruling  influence  of 
"Destiny,  apart  from  all  moral  agencies,  combined  with 
the  idea  of  fascination,  as  an  engine  by  which  Fate 
may  work  its  purposes  on  the  innocent  mind."    Argos 


—     195    — 

is  devastated  by  a  plague,  and  it  has  been  announced 
by  the  oracle  of  Delphi  that  nothing  less  than  the  utter 
extirpation  of  the  royal  race  of  Adrastus  will  appease 
the  wrath  of  the  Gods;  that  misrule  must  terminate 
before  the  pestilence  shall  be  stayed;  for 

Argos  ne'er  shall  find  release 

Till  her  monarch's  race  shall  cease. 

A  conspiracy  is  formed  for  the  assassination  of 
Adrastus;  lots  are  drawn,  and  Ion  is  fated  to  strike 
the  blow.  He  obtains  admission  to  the  presence  of  the 
King',  and  a  number  of  his  friends  have  been  posted 
in  the  precincts  of  the  palace,  ready  to  take  advantage 
of  the  consternation  caused  by  the  death  of  the  despot. 
Ion  holds  Adrastus  at  his  mercy,  and  his  dagger  is 
already  uplifted,  when  the  High-Priest  Medon  throws 
himself  between  them,  and  sternly  commands  him  to 
desist.  The  old  man  has  accidentally  discovered,  that 
Ion  is  the  son  of  Adrastus,  lost  in  infancy,  whose 
supposed  death,  by  imbittering  the  rest  of  his  days, 
had  changed  his  character,  and  plunged  him  into  crime 
and  debauchery.  Father  and  son  are  locked  in  a  tender 
embrace,  when  the  impatient  conspirators  invade  the 
apartment,  separate  them  by  force,  and  murder  the 
King.  This  act  of  violence,  however,  makes  Ion  the 
sovereign  of  Argos,  and  so  great  is  his  popularity  that 
no  one  dreams  of  disputing  his  right  to  the  throne; 
but  the  young  King  ponders  the  announcement  of  the 
oracle,  and  knows  well,  that  as  one  of  the  royal  race 
of  Argos,  he  too  is  destined  to  yield  up  his  life,  a  sacrifice 
to  the  implacable  Gods.  In  tender,  but  ambiguous  words, 
he  takes  leave  of  his  loved  Clemanthe,  the  High-Priest's 
daughter : 

Ion.  Dark  and  cold 

Stretches  the  path  which,  when  I  wear  the  crown, 

I  needs  must  enter:  the  great  gods  forbid 

That  thou  should'st  follow  in  it. 
Clem.    0  unkind! 

And  shall  we  never  see  each  other? 
Ion.  {after  a  pattse).     Yes! 

I  have  asked  that  dreadful  question  of  the  hills 

That  look  eternal ;  of  the  flowing  streams 

13* 


—     196     — 

That  lucid  flow  for  ever;  of  the  stars, 
Amid  whose  fields  of  azure  ray  raised  spirit 
Hath  trod  in  glory:  all  were  dumb;  but  now, 
While  I  thus  gaze  upon  thy  living  tace, 
I  feel  the  love  that  kindles  through  its  beauty 
Can  never  wliolly  perish :  we  shall  meet 
Again,  Clcmauthel 

Ion,  of  course,  refers  in  this  speech  to  a  meeting 
in  a  future  state  of  existence ;  for  he  is  convinced  that 
the  salvation  of  Argos  is  contingent  on  his  death.  The 
day  fixed  for  his  installation  in  the  royal  dignity  arrives : 
and  he  seats  himself  on  the  throne. 

Ion.  Argives!  I  have  a  boon 

To  crave  of  you.    Whene'er  I  shall  rejoin 

In  death  the  father  from  whose  heart  in  life 

Stern  fate  divided  me,  think  gently  of  him! 

Think  that  beneath  his  panoply  of  pride 

Were  fair  aifections  crushed  by  bitter  wrongs 

Which  fretted  him  to  madness;  what  he  did, 

Alas !  ye  know ;  could  you  know  what  he  suffered. 

Ye  w^ould  not  curse  his  name.    Yet  never  more 

Let  the  great  interests  of  the  state  depend 

Upon  the  tliousand  chances  that  may  sway 

A  piece  of  human  frailty;  swear  to  me 

That  ye  will  seek  hereafter  in  yourselves 

The  means  of  sovereignty :  our  country's  space. 

So  happy  in  its  smallness,  so  compact, 

Needs  not  the  magic  of  a  single  name 

Which  wider  regions  may  require  to  draw 

Their  interest  into  one;  but,  circled  thus. 

Like  a  blest  family,  by  simple  laws 

May  tenderly  be  governed  —  all  degrees. 

Not  placed  in  dexterous  balance,  not  combined 

By  bonds  of  parchment,  or  by  iron  clasps, 

But  blended  into  one  —  a  single  form 

Of  nymph-like  loveliness,  which  finest  chords 

Of  sj'mpathy  pervading,  shall  endow 

With  vital  beauty,  tint  with  roseate  bloom 

In  times  of  happy  peace,  and  bid  to  flash 

With  one  brave  impulse,  if  ambitious  bands 

Of  foreign  power  should  threaten.    Swear  to  mv 

That  ye  will  do  this! 

Med  on.    Wherefore  ask  this  now? 

Thou  shalt  live  long;  the  paleness  of  thy  face. 
Which  late  seemed  death-like,  is  grown  radiant  now. 
And  thine  eyes  kindle  with  the  prophecy 
Of  glorious  years. 


-     197     — 

](>ii.     The  gods  approve  me  then! 

Yet  I  will  use  the  function  of  a  king, 

And  claim  obedience.    Swear,  that  if  I  die, 

And  leave  no  issue,  ye  will  seek  the  power 

To  govern  in  the  free-born  people's  choice, 

And  in  the  prudence  of  the  wise. 
Medon  and  others.     We  swear  it! 
Ion.     Hear  and  record  the  oath,  immortal  powers! 

Now  give  me  leave  a  moment  to  approach 

That  altar  unattended.  {He  goes  to  the  altar.) 

Gracious  gods! 

In  whose  mild  service  my  glad  youth  was  spent, 

Look  on  me  now,  and  if  there  is  a  power, 

As  at  this  solemn  time  I  feel  there  is, 

Beyond  ye,  that  hath  breathed  through  all  your  shapes 

The  spirit  of  the  beautiful  that  lives 

In  earth  and  heaven;  to  ye  I  offer  up 

This  conscious  being,  full  of  life  and  love, 

For  my  dear  country's  welfare.    Let  this  blow 

End  all  her  sorrows.  {Stabs  himself.) 

The  Athenian  Captive,  likewise  a  classical  drama, 
nowhere  reaches  the  imposing  dignity  of  Ion.  Thoas, 
the  Athenian,  is  brought  as  a  prisoner-of-war  to  Corinth, 
where  he  forms  a  friendship  with  King  Creon's  son, 
Hyllus.  This  Hyllus  is  hated  by  the  King's  second  wife, 
the  Athenian  Ismene,  who  instigates  Thoas  to  murder 
the  King  her  husband  to  recover  his  liberty,  but  her 
main  object  is  to  fix  the  crime  on  Hyllus.  At  an 
assembly  of  all  the  principal  personages  in  the  temple 
of  Jupiter  the  Avenger,  the  spiteful  Queen  boldly  accuses 
Hyllus  of  parricide;  but  Thoas,  whom  she  discovers  to 
be  her  son,  confesses  his  guilt,  and  then  prays  for  and 
receives  his  death  from  the  hand  of  Hyllus.  In  the 
character  of  Ismene  there  are  some  traits  that  remind 
the  reader  of  Gulnare  in  Byron's  Corsair, 

Glencoe,  a  drama  founded  on  the  terrible  massacre 
of  the  MacDonalds  of  Glencoe  on  13th  Feb.  1689. 
presents  more  features  of  interest  to  the  general  reader 
than  the  preceding  tragedy.  The  leading  characters  are : 
Maclan,  chief  of  the  MacDonalds  of  Glencoe;  his  sons. 
John  and  Alaster;  his  nephews  Halbert  and  Henry, 
sons  of  Lady  MacDonald;  Helen  Campbell,  an  orphan 
adopted  by   Lady  MacDonald,    and  niece  to   Captain 


—     198    — 

Robert  Campbell  of  Glenlyon,  the  officer  commanding' 
the  soldiers,  on  whom  the  execution  of  the  cruel  sen- 
tence devolved.  At  the  date  of  the  massacre  Helen 
Campbell  was  really  the  wife  of  Alaster  MacDonald, 
but  it  suited  Mr.  Talfourd  better  to  make  her  the 
betrothed  bride  of  the  fictitious  Halbert.  As  might  be 
expected,  the  drama  is  almost  too  sombre  and  distres- 
sing for  representation  on  the  stage,  though  the  preva- 
lent tone  of  gloom  is  occasionally  relieved  by  such 
exquisite  descriptive  passages  as  we  find  in  the  follow- 
ing scene: 

Helen  Campbell,  Lady  MacDonald. 

Helen.    So  early  raised  to  meet  the  morning's  frost? 

Lady  M.     I  feel  no  frost;  the  ecstasy  within  me 

Clothes  all  without  with  summer;  you  shall  share 
In  joy  which  seldom  visits  these  old  walls. 

Helen.     Oh,  say  not  so;  there's  not  a  day  but  bears 
Its  blessing  on  its  light.    If  nature  doles 
Her  gifts  with  sparing  hand,  their  rareness  sheds 
Endearments  her  most  bounteous  mood  withholds 
From  greenest  valleys.    The  pure  rill  which  casts 
Its  thread  of  snow-like  lustre  o'er  the  rock, 
Which  seems  to  pierce  the  lowering  sky,  connects 
The  thoughts  of  earth  with  heaven,   while  mightier  floods 
Roar  of  dark  passions.    The  rare  sunbeam  wins 
For  a  most  light  existence  human  care, 
While  it  invests  some  marble  heap  with  gleams 
Of  palaced  visions.    If  the  tufts  of  broom 
Whence  fancy  weaves  a  chain  of  gold,  appear, 
On  nearer  visitation,  thinly  strewn, 
Each  looks  a  separate  bower,  and  offers  shade 
To  its  own  group  of  fairies.    The  prized  harebell 
Wastes  not  its  dawning  azure  on  a  bank 
Rough  and  confused  with  loveliness,  but  wears 
The  modest  story  of  its  gentle  life 
On  leaves  that  love  has  tended;  nay,  the  heath, 
Which,  slowly,  from  a  stinted  root,  unfolds 
Pale  lilac  blossoms,  —  image  of  a  maid 
Rear'd  tenderly  in  solitude,  is  bless'd 
Instead  of  sharing  with  a  million  flowers 
One  radiant  flush,  in  offering  its  faint  bloom 
To  loving  eyes.    Say  not  again,  dear  lady. 
That  joy  but  seldom  visits  these  old  walls. 

Mr.  Talfourd's  posthumous  and  rather  duU  tragedy, 
the   Castilian,   has  as  yet  attracted  but  little  notice; 


—     199     — 

but  his  prose -works,  Vacation  Rambles,  a  series  of 
continental  tours  in  1841  —  43,  and  his  Letters  and 
Memorials  of  Charles  Lamb,  have  added  much  to  his 
reputation. 

Lord  Tennyson. 

The  Laiu-eate,  Lord  Tennyson,  has  also  competed 
with  some  success  for  the  bays  of  the  dramatic  poet. 
Tn  our  notice  of  the  dramas  he  has  hitherto  produced,  we 
shall  begin  with  Harold,  which  we  look  on  as  the  first 
of  his  dramatic  productions  in  the  order  of  merit. 

Harold  is  a  five-act  historical  tragedy.  In  the  first 
act  we  find  King  Edward  the  Confessor  old  and  feeble, 
and  vague  fears  prevail  that  his  dissolution  will  be  the 
prelude  to  some  national  disaster  —  an  apprehension 
intensified  by  the  sight  of  Halley's  comet  flaming  over- 
head. Harold  alone  seems  to  enjoy  an  immunity  from 
the  superstition  of  the  age;  for  when  Stigand,  the 
archbishop  of  Canterbury,  apostrophizing  the  comet,  in- 
quires: "Is  that  the  doom  of  England?"  he  contemp- 
tuously replies:  — 

Why  not  the  doom  of  all  the  world  as  well? 

For  all  the  world  sees  it  as  well  as  England. 

These  meteors  came  and  went  before  our  day, 

Not  harming  any:  it  threatens  us  no  more 

Than  French  or  Norman.   War?  the  worst  that  follows 

Things  that  seem  jerk'd  out  of  the  common  init 

Of  Nature  is  the  hot  religious  fool, 

Who,  seeing  war  in  heaven,  for  heaven's  credit 

Makes  it  on  earth. 

Harold  solicits  the  permission  of  the  king  to  go 
on  a  hunting  expedition  to  Normandy;  and  when  Ed- 
ward, in  his  distrust  of  the  "fox-lion,"  Duke  William, 
refuses  his  consent,  Harold  announces  his  intention 
of  taking  his  hounds  and  hawks  to  Flanders.  In  the 
second  act,  we  find  him,  notwithstanding,  shipwrecked 
on  the  coast  of  Normandy,  and  a  prisoner  in  the  hands 
of  the  astute  Guy  of  Ponthieu,  who  demands  a  ransom 
for  his  liberation.  This  ransom  is  paid  by  Duke  William, 
who  brings  Harold  to  his  court,   with  the  intention  of 


~     200     — 

inducing  him,  the  brother  in-law  and  probable  heir  of 
the  childless  Edward,  by  force  or  by  fraud,  to  pledge 
himself,  by  a  solemn  oath,  to  support  William's  preten- 
sions to  the  throne  of  England,  on  the  death  of  the 
king.  Overcome  by  the  vehement  entreaties  of  hh 
youngest  brother  Wulfnoth,  then  a  hostage  at  the  Nor- 
man court,  who  dreads  the  consequences  of  his  brother'.^ 
contumacy  for  them  both,  persuaded  by  the  friendly 
Norman  noble  Malet,  and  urged  by  his  own  longing  to 
return  to  the  fair  Edith,  King  Edward's  ward,  Harold 
consents  to  take  an  oath,  which  he  does  not  regard 
as  binding.  William  begins  his  manoeuvres  by  sounding 
Harold,  and  inquires:  "the  heir  of  England,  who  is  lie?'' 
whereupon  the  dialogue  proceeds: 

Harold.    The  Atheling  is  nearest  to  the  throne. 
William.     But  sickly,  slight,  half-witted,  and  a  child, 

Will  England  have  him  king? 
Har.  It  may  be,  no. 

Will.    And  hath  King  Edward  not  pronounced  his  heir? 
Har.     Not  that  I  know. 
Will.  When  he  was  here  in  Normandy, 

He  loved  us  and  we  him,  because  Ave  found  him 

A  Norman  of  the  Normans. 
Har.  So  did  we. 

Will.     A  gentle,  gracious,  pure,  and  saintly  man! 

And  grateful  to  the  hand  that  shielded  him, 

He  promised  that  if  ever  he  were  king 

In  England,  he  would  give  his  kingly  voice 

To  me  as  his  successor.     Knowest  thou  this? 
Har.    I  learn  it  now. 
Will.  Thou  knowest  I  am  his  cousin. 

And  that  my  wife  descends  frora  Alfred? 
Har.  Ay. 

Will.    Who  hath  a  better  claim  then  to  the  crown 

So  that  ye  will  not  crown  the  Atheling? 
Har.     None  that  I  know  ...  if  that  but  hung  upon 

King  Edward's  will. 
Will.  Wilt  thou  uphold  my  claim? 

Malet  {aside  to  Harold).  Be  careful  of  thine  answer,  my  good  friend. 
Wulfnoth   {aside  to  Harold).     Oh!   Harold,   for  my   sake   and  for 

thine  own! 
Har.    Ay  ...  if  the  king  have  not  revoked  his  promise. 
Will.    But  hath  he  done  it  then? 
Har.     '  Not  that  I  know. 

Will.    Good,  good,  and  thou  wilt  help  me  to  the  crown? 
Har.    Ay  .      .  if  the  Witan  wiU  consent  to  this. 


—     201     — 

Will.    Thou  art  the  mightiest  voice  in  England,  man, 
Thy  voice  will  lead  the  Witan  —  shall  I  liave  it? 

VV  u  1  f  11 0 1  li  (aside  to  Harold^.  Oh !  Harold,  if  thou  love  thine  Edith,  ay. 

Har.    Ay,  if  — 

Malet  {aside  to  Harold).    Thine  " if s'' will  sear  thine  eyes  out       h.v. 

Will.     I  ask  thee,  wilt  thou  help  me  to  the  crown? 
And  I  will  make  thee  my  great  Earl  of  Earls, 
Foremost  in  England  and  in  Normandy; 
Thou  Shalt  be  verily  king  -—  all  but  the  name  — 
For  I  shall  most  sojourn  in  Normandy; 
And  thou  be  my  vice-king  in  England.     Speak. 

Wulfnotli  (aside  to  Harold).     Ay.  brother  —  for  the  sake  of  Eng- 
land —  ay. 

Har.     My  lord  ~ 

Malet  (aside  to  Harold).     Take  heed  now. 

Har.  ^  Ay. 

Will.  I  am  content. 

For  thou  art  truthful,  and  thy  word  thy  bond. 
To-moiTow  will  we  ride  with  thee  to  Harfleur. 

(Exit  William). 

Halet.     Harold,  1  am  thy  friend,  one  life  with  thee. 
And  even  as  I  should  bless  thee  saving  mine, 
I  thank  thee  now  for  having  saved  thyself. 

(Exit  Malet). 

Har.     For  having  lost  myself  to  save  myself, 

Said  ''ay"  when  I  meant  "no,"  lied  like  a  lad 

That  dreads  the  pendent  scourge,  said  ''ay"  for  "no"! 

Ay!  No!  —  he  hath  not  bound  me  by  an  oath  — 

Is"  "ay"  an  oath?  is  "ay"  strong  as  an  oath? 

Or  is  it  the  same  sin  to  break  my  word 

As  break  mine  oath?  He  calFd  my  word  my  bond! 

He  is  a  liar  who  knows  I  am  a  liar, 

And  makes  believe  that  he  believes  my  word  — 

The  crime  be  on  his  head  —  not  bounden  —  no. 

In  the  tliird  act  Harold  is  again  in  England,  but 
his  beloved  Edith  is  withheld  from  him  by  the  King, 
and  he  reluctantly  marries  Aldwyth,  the  widowed  Queen 
of  Wales.     The  terrible  comet  is  still  visible: 

It  glares  in  heaven,  it  flares  upon  the  Thames, 

The  people  are  as  thick  as  bees  below, 

They  hum  like  bees  —  they  cannot  speak  -—  for  awe ; 

Look  to  the  skies,  then  to  the  river,  strike 

Their  hearts,  and  hold  their  babies  up  to  it; 

and  other  portents  announce  an  impending  catastrophe. 
In  the  presence  of  the  dying  King,  Aldred  relates  how 
a  wayfarer  passing  by  Senlac  hill,  had  heard 


—     202     — 

A  ghostly  horn 
Blowing  continuall}',  and  faint  battle  hymns, 
And  cries,  and  clashes,  and  the  groans  of  men; 
And  dreadful  shadows  strove  upon  the  hill, 
And  dreadful  lights  crept  up  from  out  the  marsh  — 
Corpse-candles  gliding  over  nameless  graves. 

The  name  Senlac  is  caught  up  by  Edward  in  his 
troubled  sleep,  and  making  a  grim  play  on  the  word, 
he  murmurs: 

A  lake, 
A  sea  of  blood  —  we  are  drown'd  in  blood  —  for  God 
Has  filled  the  quiver,  and  Death  has  drawn  the  bow  — 
Sanguelac!  Sanguelac!  the  arrow!  the  arrow! 

And  with  these  words  in  his  mouth  he  dies. 

Harold  now  becomes  king,  and  the  first  exercise 
of  his  royal  power  is  to  crush  the  rebellion  excited  by 
his  turbulent  brother  Tostig,  with  the  aid  of  the  Nor- 
wegian King,  Harold  Hardrada,  in  the  principality  of 
Northumberland.  The  insurgents  are  totally  routed  at 
Stamford  Bridge.  Particularly  vigorous  is  the  description 
of  the  King  of  Norway's  death  on  the  battle-field: 

—  when  all  was  lost,  he  yell'd, 
And  bit  his  shield,  and  dash'd  it  on  the  ground, 
And  swaying  his  iwo-handed  sword  about  him. 
Two  deaths  at  every  swing,  ran  in  upon  us, 
And  died  so. 

But  in  the  mean  time  the  Normans  under  Duke 
William  have  landed,  and  King  Harold  must  gather  all 
his  forces  without  delay,  and  march  southwards  to 
oppose  them. 

When  the  fifth  act  opens,  the  rival  armies  stand 
face  to  face  at  Senlac  or  Hastings.  In  a  dream,  the 
night  before  the  battle,  Harold  is  visited  by  the  ghosts 
of  those  whose  destiny  in  life  has  been  in  some  way 
or  other  mixed  up  with  his  own,  including  his  brother 
Tostig  and  his  youngest  brother  Wulfnoth,  though  we 
liad  supposed  the  latter  to  be  still  a  living  man.  Like 
Richard  III.  he  suddenly  awakes,  and  springs  from  his 
couch,  defiantly  exclaiming: 


—     203     — 

Away ! 
My  battle-axe  against  your  voices.     Peace! 
The  king's  last  word  —  "the  arrow!"   I  shall  die  — 
I  die  for  England  then,  who  lived  for  England  — 
What  nobler?  men  must  die. 
I  cannot  fall  mto  a  falser  world  — 
I  have  done  no  man  wrong.     Tostig,  poor  brother, 
Art  thou  so  anger' d? 

Fain  had  I  kept  thine  earldom  in  thy  hands 
Save  for  thy  wild  and  violent  will  that  wrench'd 
All  hearts  of  freemen  from  thee. 

Is  it  possible 

That  mortal  men  should  bear  their  earthly  heats 

Into  yon  bloodless  world,  and  threaten  us  thence 

Unschool'd  of  Death?  Thus  then  thou  art  revenged  — 

I  left  our  England  naked  to  the  South 

To  meet  thee  in  the  North.     The  Norseman's  raid 

Hath  helpt  the  Norman,  and  the  race  of  Godwin 

Hath  ruin'd  Godwin.     No  —  our  waking  thoughts 

Suifer  a  stormless  shipwreck  in  the  pools 

Of  sullen  slumber,  and  arise  again 

Disjointed:  only  dreams  —  where  mine  own  self 

Takes  part  against  myself!   Why?  for  a  spark 

Of  self-disdain  born  in  me  when  I  sware 

Falsely  to  him,  the  falser  Norman,  over 

His  gilded  ark  of  mummy-saints,  by  whom 

I  knew  not  that  I  sware,  —  not  for  myself  — 

For  England. 

During  the  battle  the  stage  is  occupied  by  Stigand 
and  Edith,  and  it  is  only  from  the  disjointed  description 
of  the  archbishop  that  we  can  glean  the  incidents  of 
the  light,  and  the  fall  of  Harold.  William  at  length 
enters  victorious;  and  Edith,  after  acknowledging  her- 
self to  be  Harold's  wife  —  which  is  rather  puzzling  after 
the  marriage  with  Aldwyth  —  dies,  as  it  appears,  of  a 
broken  heart. 

Though  we  may  find,  scattered  through  this  tragedy, 
many  happy  ideas  elegantly  expressed,  yet  something 
more  is  necessary  to  meet  the  requirements  of  dramatic 
art;  and  perhaps  a  reviewer  did  not  say  too  much 
when  he  averred,  that  the  failure  of  Harold  to  satisfy 
these  exigencies  does  more  than  prove  that  Lord  Tenny- 
son has  no  great  aptitude  for  dramatic  composition. 

Queen  Mary  (originally  named  Mary  Tudor),  met 
with  a  very  cold  reception  on  the  stage.    Though  the 


—     204     — 

Intiire  Queen  Elizabeth  is  one  of  the  dramatis  personae, 
and  the  most  is  made  of  Wyatt's  rash  rebellion,  the 
piece  from  beginning  to  end  is  dull.  We  feel  but  small 
sympathy  with  a  fanatical,  unlovable  woman  wedded 
to  an  atrabilious,  unloving  Spanish  husband,  and  vainly 
sigliing  for  the  joys  of  maternity.  The  finest  thing  in 
the  drama,  in  our  opinion,  is  the  fifth  scene  of  the  fifth 
act,  where  Mary  complains  with  indignant  bitterness 
of  Philip's  indifference,  and  bewails  the  loss  of  the 
old  English  stronghold  Calais,  which  had  been  sacrificed 
to  the  crooked  and  selfish  policy  of  Spain : 

Alice.    Madam,  who  goes?  King  PhiUpV 

Mary.     No,  Philip  comes  and  goes,  but  never  goes. 

Women,  when  I  am  dead. 

Open  my  heart,  and  there  you  will  find  written 

Two  names,  Philip  and  Calais;  open  his,  — 

So  that  he  have  one,  — 

You  will  find  Philip  only,  policy,  policy,  — 

Ay,  worse  than  that,  not  one  hour  true  to  me! 

Foul  maggots  crawling  in  a  fester'd  vice! 

Adulterous  to  the  very  heart  of  Hell. 

Hast  thou  a  knife? 
A.     Ay,  Madam,  but  o'  God's  mercy  — 
M.     Fool,  think'st  thou  I  would  peril  mine  own  soul 

By  slaughter  of  the  body?  I  could  not,  girl, 

Not  this  way  —  callous  with  constant  stripe, 

TJnwoundable.     Thy  knife! 
A.     Take  heed,  take  heed! 

The  blade  is  keen  as  death. 
M.     This  Philip  shall  not 

Stare  in  upon  me  in  my  haggardness; 

Old,  miserable,  diseased, 

Incapable  of  children.     Come  thou  down. 

(Cuts  out  the  picture,  and  throws  it  dotcn.) 

Lie  there.     (Wails).    0  God,  I  have  kill'd  my  Philip. 
A.  ~  No, 

Madam,  you  have  but  cut  the  canvas  out, 

We  can  replace  it. 
31.     All  is  well,  then;  rest  — 

I  will  to  rest;  he  said,  1  must  have  rest. 

The  Falcon  is  a  trifling  one -act  piece,  founded 
on  the  nintli  tale  of  the  fifth  day  in  Boccaccio's  Deca- 
merone.  A  young  Florentine,  called  Federigo  degli 
Alberighi,  the  Italian  story-teller  relates,  loved  a  certain 
Madam  Giovanna.  and  spent  his  whole  moderate  fortune 


—     205     — 

in  procuring  her  vsucli  diversions  as  balls,  tilts,  and 
pleasure-parties,  and  in  making  her  elegant  and  costly 
presents.  Reduced  to  poverty,  he  withdraws  to  the 
country,  where  he  finds  himself  entirely  dependent  for 
sustenance  on  the  booty  made  by  his  well-trained  hawk. 
After  some  time,  the  lady,  now  a  widow,  goes  into 
retirement  with  her  son ;  and  as  she  has  settled  in  the 
same  neighbourhood,  the  young  lad  often  meets  Fe- 
ilerigo,  and  cannot  enough  admire  his  wonderful  bird. 
The  child  falls  dangerously  ill,  and  all  the  remedies 
of  the  doctor  avail  nothing,  for  the  little  patient  pines 
for  the  much -prized  hawk.  Alarmed  at  the  critical 
condition  of  her  darling,  Madam  Giovanna  pays  a  visit 
to  Federigo,  with  the  intention  of  begging  him  to  give 
lier  the  falcon.  She  is  received  with  due  respect  by 
the  young  gentleman,  who  desires  to  offer  her  a  col- 
lation, but  having  nothing  else  at  hand,  the  poor  fellow, 
at  his  wits'  end,  makes  up  his  mind  to  sacrifice  his 
priceless  feathered  friend.  When  the  lady  has  finished 
iier  meal,  she  brings  forward  her  request ;  which  Federigo 
of  course  is  unable  to  grant,  but  the  lady,  on  learning 
the  truth,  is  so  touched  that  when  her  son  soon  after- 
wards dies ,  she  marries  Federigo ,  who ,  we  are  told, 
lived  very  happily  with  her,  and  became  a  good  manager 
of  the  considerable  property  brought  him  by  his  wife. 
Such  is  Boccaccio's  story,  but  is  has  been  a  good  deal 
modified  by  Lord  Tennyson,  who  still  leaves  Count 
Federigo  two  domestics  in  all  his  indigence  ~  Ms  old 
nurse  Elisabetta,  and  his  serving-man  and  foster-brother, 
Filippo.  This  Filippo  is  a  half-comic  character,  con- 
tinually indulging  in  jokes  about  the  poverty  of  the 
household;  as  he  does  in  the  following  dialogue: 

Count.    Come,  come,  Filippo,  what  is  there  in  the  larder? 
Filippo.    Shelves  and  hooks,  shelves  and  hooks,  and  when  I  see 

the  shelves,  I  am  like  to  hang  myself  on  the  hooks. 
Count.     No  bread? 
Filippo.    Half  a  breakfast  for  a  rat! 
Count.     Milk? 

Filippo.     Three  laps  for  a  cat! 
('ount.     Cheese? 
Filippo.    A  supper  for  twelve  mites. 


—     206     — 

Count.     Eggs? 

Filippo.    One,  but  addled. 

Count.    No  bird? 

Filippo.    Half  a  tit  and  a  hern's  bill. 

The  Lady  Giovanna  arrives,  and  the  Count  wel- 
comes her  with  the  words: 

Lady,  you  bring  your  light  into  my  cottage 
Who  never  deign'd  to  shine  into  my  palace. 
My  palace  wanting  you  was  but  a  cottage; 
My  cottage,  while  you  grace  it,  is  a  palace. 

In  the  course  of  the  ensuing  conversation  we  find 
some  lines  that  merit  quotation.  Thus,  he  assures  the 
lady: 

You  can  touch 
No  chord  in  me  that  would  not  answer  you 
In  music; 

and  referring  to  a  warlike   exploit  in  which  he  wore 
her  wreath,  he  declares: 

I  wore  the  lady's  chaplet  round  my  neck; 
It  served  me  for  a  blessed  rosary. 

On  her  side,  the  Lady,  returning  some  diamonds 
he  had  presented  her  with,  in  more  prosperous  days, 
exclaims : 

No  other  heart 
Of  such  magnificence  in  courtesy 
Beats  —  out  of  heaven. 

At  the  end  of  the  piece  the  child  still  lives,  and 
Federigo  addresses  the  Lady,  now  his  betrothed  bride, 
in  these  words: 

We  two  together 
Will  help  to  heal  your  son  —  your  son  and  mine  — 
We  shall  do  it  —  we  shall  do  it. 
The  purpose  of  my  being  is  accomplished. 
And  I  am  happy! 

Another  version  of  this  same  story,  the  Falcon,  may 
be  found  in  Longfellow's  Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn,  as 
the  Student's  Tale-  and  it  likewise  forms  the  subject 
of  Gounod's  opera,  La  Colombe. 

Of  the  two-act  tragedy,  the  Cup,  it  will  suffice  to 
say,  that  the  heroine,  Gamma,  wife  of  Sinnatus,  Tetrarch 


i 


—     207     — 

of  Galatia ,  after  the  murder  of  her  husband  by  the 
ex-Tetrach  Synorix,  at  once  revenges  herself  on  the 
assassin,  and  puts  an  end  to  her  own  existence,  by 
inducing  Synorix,  under  pretence  of  a  marriage  between 
them,  to  partake  with  her  of  a  cup  of  poisoned  wine. 
More  interesting,  in  all  respects,  is  the  five-act 
tragedy,  Becket,  The  list  of  dramatis  personae  includes 
King  Henry  II.,  Queen  Eleanor,  Becket,  Eosamund 
Clilford,  and  most  of  the  other  historical  personages 
who  at  that  time  played  a  part  of  any  importance  on 
the  political  stage.  In  a  Prologue,  which  is  itself  as 
long  as  an  ordinary  act,  Becket  and  the  King  are  in- 
troduced to  us,  seated  at  chess,  and  the  impatient  and 
choleric  temper  of  Henry,  manifested  by  the  rashness 
of  liis  moves,  is  skilfully  contrasted  with  the  calculating 
coolness  of  his  antagonist,  who  wins  the  game.  On 
the  whole,  Lord  Tennyson  in  his  tragedy  respects  the 
facts  of  history,  if  we  except  the  scene  in  the  fourth 
act,  where  Becket  rescues  Rosamund  Clifford  out  of 
the  murderous  hands  of  the  vindictive  Queen  Eleanor, 
and  the  last  scene  of  the  fifth  act,  when  Rosamund, 
in  her  turn,  endeavours  though  unsuccessfully  to  repay 
the  obligation  by  shielding  the  life  of  her  benefactor. 
The  last-mentioned  scene  is  the  most  stirring  and  ex- 
citing in  the  tragedy.  Becket,  who  had  been  the  friend 
and  servant  of  the  King  as  Chancellor,  becomes  as 
Archbishop  a  dangerous  competitor  for  popularity  and 
power.  Out  of  favour  at  Court,  he  sullenly  retires  to 
liis  see  of  Canterbury,  whither  he  is  pursued  by  four 
knights,  devoted  partisans  of  Henry,  who  have  vowed 
the  death  of  the  audacious  priest.  How  they  discharged 
this  rash  vow  we  shall  leave  the  poet  himself  to  tell. 
The  scene  is  the  North  Transept  of  Canterbury  Cathedral : 

Monks.  Oh,  my  lord  Archbishop, 

A  score  of  knights  all  arra'd  with  swords  and  axes  — 
To  the  choir,  to  the  choir! 

{Monks  divide,  part  flying  by   the  stairs  on  the  right,   part  by 
those  on  the  left). 
Becket.    Shall  I  too  pass  to  the  choir, 

And  die  upon  the  Patriarchal  throne 
Of  all  my  predecessors? 


—     208     — 

John  of  Salisbury.  No,  to  the  crypt! 

Twenty  steps  down.    Stumble  not  in  the  darkness. 

Lest  they  should  seize  thee, 
(irirn.  To  the  cryi)t?  no  —  no, 

To  the  chapel  of  St.  Blaise  beneath  the  roof! 
John  of  S.  {pointing  upward  and  doiimward.) 

That  way,  or  this!  Save  thyself  either  way. 
Becket.     Oh,  no,  not  either  way,  nor  any  Avay 

Save  by  that  way  which  leads  thro'  night  to  light. 

Not  twenty  steps,  but  one. 

And  fear  not  I  should  stumble  in  the  darkness, 

Not  tho'  it  be  their  hour,  the  powers  of  darkness, 

But  my  hour  too,  the  power  of  light  in  darkness! 

I  am  not  in  the  darkness  but  the  light. 

Seen  by  the  Church  in  Heaven,  the  Church  on  earth  — 

The  power  of  life  in  death  to  make  her  free! 

(Enter  the  four  Knights.     John  of  Salisbury  Jlies  to  the  altar 
of  St.  Benedict.) 
Kitzurse.     Here,  here.  King's  men! 

{Catches  hold  of  the  last  flying  Monk.) 

Where  is  the  traitor  Becket? 
Monk.     I  am  not  he!  I  am  not  he.  my  lord. 

1  am  not  he,  indeed! 
Fitzurse.  Hence  to  the  fiend! 

\Fmhes  him  away.) 

Wliere  is  this  treble  traitor  to  the  King? 
l)e  Tracy.     Where  is  the  Archbishop,  Thomas  Becket? 
Becket.  Here. 

No  traitor  to  the  King,  ])ut  Priest  of  God, 

Primate  of  England. 

I  am  he  ye  seek. 

What  would  ye  have  of  me? 
Fitzurse.  Your  life. 

De  Morville.    Save  that  you  will  absolve  the  bishops. 
Becket.  Never,  — 

Except  they  make  submission  to  the  Church. 

You  had  my  answer  to  that  cry  before. 
De  Morville.     Why,  then  you  are  a  dead  man;  llee! 
Becket.  I  will  not. 

f  am  readier  to  be  slain,  than  thou  to  slay. 

Hugh,  1  know  well  thou  hast  but  half  a  heart 

'I'o  bathe  this  sacred  pavement  with  my  blood. 

(iod  pardon  thee  and  these,  ])ut  God's  full  curse 

Shatter  you  all  to  pieces,  if  ye  harm 

Une  of  my  flock! 
Kitzurse.     Was  not  the  great  gate  shut? 

*.  They  are  thronging  in  to  vespers  —  half  the  town. 

We  shall  be  overwhelm'd.    Seize  him  and  carry  him! 

Come  with  us  —  nay  —  thou  art  our  prisoner  —  come! 
De  M-orviUe.     Ay,  make  him  prisoner,  do  not  harm  the  man. 


—     209    — 

Becket.    Touch  me  not! 

De  Brito.  How  the  good  priests  gods  himself! 

He  is  not  yet  ascended  to  the  Father. 
Fitzurse.    I  wUl  not  only  touch,  but  drag  thee  hence. 
Becket.    Thou  art  my  man,  thou  art  my  vassal.    Away! 

(Flings  him  off.) 
De  Tracy.     Come;  as  he  said,  thou  art  our  prisoner. 
Becket.  Down! 

{Throws  him  headlong.) 
Fitzurse  {advances  with  drawn  sword.) 

I  told  thee  tliat  I  should  remember  thee! 
Becket.    Profligate  pander! 
Fitzurse.  Do  you  hear  that?  strike,  strike. 

[Strikes  off  the  Archbishop's  mitre,  and  loounds  him  in  the  forehead.) 
Becket.    I  do  commend  my  cause  to  God,  the  Virgin, 

St.  Denis  of  France  and  St.  Alphege  of  England, 

And  all  the  tutelar  Saints  of  Canterbury. 

{Qrim  wraps  his  arms  about  the  Archbishop.) 

Spare  this  defence,  dear  brother. 

{Tracy  approaches  hesitatingly). 
Fitzurse.  Strike  him,  Tracy! 

Rosamund  {rushing  doum  from  the  choir). 

No,  no,  no,  no! 
Fitzurse.  This  wanton  here!  De  Morville, 

Hold  her  away. 
De  Morville.  I  hold  her. 

liosamund.  Mercy,  mercy, 

As  you  would  hope  for  mercy. 
Kitzurse.  Strike,  I  say. 

(Trim.    0  God,  0  noble  knights,  0  sacrilege! 

Strike  our  Archbishop  in  his  own  cathedral! 

The  Pope,  the  King,  will  curse  you  —  the  whole  world 

Abhor  you;  ye  will  die  the  death  of  dogs! 

Nay,  nay,  good  Tracy.  {Lifts  his  arm.\ 

Fitzurse.  Answer  not,  but  strike. 

De  Tracy.    There  is  my  answer  then. 

{Sword  falls  on  Grim's  arm.) 
(Trim.  Mine  arm  is  severd. 

I  can  no  more  —  fight  out  the  good  fight  —  die 

Conqueror.  (Staggers  into  the  chapel  of  St.  Benedict.) 

Becket  (falling  on  his  knees). 

At  the  right  hand  of  Power  — 

Power  and  great  glory  —  for  thy  Clmrch,  0  Lord  — 

Into  Thy  hands,  0  Lord  —  into  Thy  hands!  — 

(Sinks  prone). 
De  Brito.    This  last  to  rid  thee  of  a  world  of  brawls!  (Kills  him). 

The  traitor's  dead,  and  will  arise  no  more. 

If   we    carefully    compare    the    dramas    of   Lord 
Tennyson  with  those  of  Lord  Lytton,   candour  we  be- 

14 


—     210    — 

lieve  will  compel  us  to  acknowledge,  that  whatever 
superiority  the  fonner  may  justly  claim  over  his  old 
rival,  as  a  poet,  is  strictly  limited  by  the  line  which 
divides  the  realm  of  lyrical  from  that  of  dramatic 
poetry.  Beyond  that  boundary  Lord  Lytton's  pre-emi- 
nence is  unquestionable. 


Robert  Browning. 

We  have  already  mentioned  Mr.  Browning's  two 
early  tragedies,  Strafford  and  the  Blot  on  the  Scutcheon. 
The  subject  of  the  first  is  of  course  historical.  In  the 
second,  a  proud  and  punctilious  nobleman,  Lord  Thorold 
Tresham,  accidentally  discovers  that  his  sister  Mildred 
accords  secret  nocturnal  interviews  to  his  friend,  Earl 
Mertoun,  and  the  consequences  are  fatal  to  all  parties. 
The  frigid  reception  both  these  tragedies  found  on  re- 
presentation would  have  deterred  almost  any  other  man 
from  making  fresh  attempts  of  the  same  kind,  but 
BroAvning,  nowise  dismayed,  subsequently  produced: 
King  Victor  and  King  Charles,  a  tragedy;  Colomhes  Birth- 
day^ a  play;  a  Soul's  Tragedy;  the  Return  of  the  Druses, 
a  tragedy;  and  Luria,  a  tragedy.  No  attempt  has  been 
made  to  bring  any  of  these  on  the  stage.  In  the  first- 
named  piece,  the  principal  personages  are  the  first 
King  of  Sardinia,  Victor  Amadeus,  and  his  son  Charles 
Emmanuel;  and  the  main  incident  is  a  pretended  ab- 
dication on  the  part  of  the  father  in  favour  of  his  son. 
Victor  afterwards  resumes  his  royal  dignity,  but  only 
to  die  as  king.  There  is  much  in  the  drama  that  is 
anything  but  clear.  Colombe  is  a  German  princess, 
Duchess  of  Juliers  and  Cleves,  and  here  we  have  to 
do  with  a  real  abdication,  prompted  by  the  Duchess's 
love  for  the  humble  Valence,  in  favour  of  the  claimant, 
Prince  Berthold.  The  plot  of  a  Soul's  Tragedy  is  rather 
ingenious.  Luitolfo  commits  a  political  murder,  and  is 
forced  to  fly.  His  friend  Chiappino,  desirous  of  favour- 
ing his  escape,  and  moved  by  the  despair  of  Luitolfo's 
betrothed.  Eulalia.  takes  the  crime  on  himself,  and  is 


—     211     — 

ready  to  mount  the  scaffold;  but  to  his  great  surprise 
he  is  not  only  publicly  thanked  for  the  deed  by  his 
fellow  -  citizens ,  but  elected  provost  in  the  murdered 
man's  place.  He  soon  becomes  corrupted  by  prosperity, 
and  thinks  no  more  of  the  fugitive  Luitolfo,  who  after 
a  time  returns  to  find  his  faithless  friend  a  suitor  for 
Eulalia's  hand.  As  may  be  supposed,  the  catastrophe 
is  highly  tragic,  l^he  scene  of  the  Return  of  the  Druses 
is  an  isiet  of  the  southern  Sporades  colonised  by  Druses 
of  Lebanon,  and  garrisoned  by  the  Kniglits-Hospitallers 
of  Rhodes.  An  unpopular  Prefect  is  assassinated,  and 
the  colonists  are  only  saved  from  the  vengeance  of  the 
Knights  by  the  intervention  of  the  Venetians,  who 
transport  them  back  to  their  own  country.  The  romantic 
part  of  the  intrigue  is  represented  by  the  maiden  Anael 
and  her  two  rival  lovers,  the  Druse  Djabal  and  the 
French  Loys.  Luria,  who  gives  his  name  to  the  next 
tragedy,  is  a  Moorish  general  in  the  service  of  the 
Florentine  Eepublic,  then  at  war  with  Pisa.  Being 
wrongfully  accused  of  treason,  he  is  urged  by  his  fair 
friend  Domizia  to  revenge  himself  by  marching  with 
his  mercenaries  against  the  ungrateful  Florence,  but 
he  prefers  death  to  dishonour,  and  stabs  himself.  These 
later  dramas  of  Browning's  are  even  less  suitable  as 
acting  plays  than  the  two  earlier  ones :  but  amid  their 
prevalent  obscurity,  their  strange  phraseology  and  their 
bewildering  inversions,  the  patient  reader  may  find 
many  beauties.  In  fact,  they  are  rather  dramatic  poems 
than  dramas.  The  dialogue  produces  the  effect  of  a 
series  of  monologues  pronounced  by  each  of  the  characters 
in  turn,  and  we  miss  that  rapid  interchange  of  thought 
which  is  so  indispensable  to  excite  the  interest  and 
secure  the  attention  of  the  reader  or  the  listener. 


Douglas  Jerrold. 

Besides  two  or  three  novels,  and  his  famous  con- 
tributions to  the  London  Punchy  Mr.  Jerrold  (1803 — 1857) 
has  written  some   excellent  comedies  and  farces.    Of 

14* 


—    212     — 

these,  one  of  the  best,  Black-Eyed  Susan,  is  founded 
on  John  Gay's  well-known  ballad: 

All  in  the  Downs  the  fleet  was  moored; 

and  such  was  the  popularity  it  attained  that  Mr.  T. 
P.  Cooke,  the  original  WilKam,  appeared  no  less  than 
four  hundred  times  successively  in  the  same  character, 
partly  at  the  Surrey  Theatre  in  London  and  partly  in 
the  provinces.  William,  a  sailor  aboard  a  man-of-war, 
is  Susan's  husband;  and  his  captain,  whose  name  is 
Crossti-ee,  having  one  day  when  intoxicated  insulted 
Susan  in  the  public  street,  William  sees  himself  com- 
pelled to  strike  him  in  defence  of  his  wife.  For  a 
sailor,  however,  to  strike  his  captain,  even  under  the 
greatest  provocation,  is  a  most  serious  offence,  and  it 
results  in  the  arrest  of  William,  and  his  trial  before  a 
court-martial  presided  over  by  the  admiral.  Witnesses 
are  called,  who  make  their  depositions,  and  the  case 
is  submitted  to  a  jury   of  captains  for  their  decision: 

Admiral.  Gentlemen,  nothing  more  remains  for  us  than  to  con- 
sider the  justice  of  our  verdict.  Although  the  case  of  the 
unfortunate  man  admits  of  many  palliatives,  still,  for  the  up- 
holding of  a  necessary  discipline,  any  commiseration  would 
aiford  a  dangerous  precedent,  and  I  fear  cannot  be  indulged. 
Gentlemen,  are  you  all  determined  in  yoiu*  verdict?  Guilty  or 
not  guilty?  —  Guilty?  {after  a  pause ^  the  Captains  how  assent.) 
It  remains  then  for  me  to  pass  the  sentence  of  the  law?  (Cap- 
tains how.)    Bring  back  the  prisoner. 

Re-enter  William  and  Master-at-arms, 

A  dm.  Prisoner  —  after  a  patient  and  impartial  investigation  of 
your  case,  this  Court  has  unanimously  pronounced  you  —  Guilty  1 
(patise.)  If  you  have  anything  to  say  in  arrest  of  judgment  — 
now  is  your  time  to  speak. 

William,  In  a  moment,  your  honours.  —  My  top-lights ^)  are  rather 
misty.  Your  honours,  I  had  been  three  years  at  sea,  and  had 
never  looked  upon  or  heard  from  my  wife  —  as  sweet  a  little 
craft  as  was  ever  launched  —  I  had  come  ashore,  and  I  was 
as  lively  as  a  petrel  in  a  storm;  I  found  Susan  —  that's  my 
wife,  your  honours  —  all  her  gilt  ^)  taken  by  the  land-sharks,^) 
but  yet  all  taut,*)  with  a  face  as  red  and  rosy  as  the  King's 
head  on  the  side  of  a  fire-bucket.    Well,  your  honours,  when 

*)  My  eyes  (Mastlichter).  ^)  Money.  ^)  Knavish  creditors,  swindler.'^. 
*)  In  good  order,  neat. 


—    213    — 

we  were  as  merry  as  a  ship's  crew  on  a  pay-day,  there  comes 
an  order  to  go  aboard;  I  left  Susan,  and  went  with  the  rest 
of  the  liberty  men  to  ax  leave  of  the  first  lieutenant.  I  hadn't 
been  gone  the  turning  of  an  hour-glass ,  when  I  heard  Susan 
giving  signals  of  distress ,  I  out  with  my  cutlass ,  made  all 
sail,  and  came  up  to  my  craft  —  I  found  her  battling  with  a 
pirate  —  I  never  looked  at  his  figure-head,  never  stopped  — 
would  any  of  your  honours?  long  live  you  and  your  wives  say 
I!  —  would  any  of  your  honours  have  rowed  alongside  as  if 
you'd  been  going  aboard  a  royal  yacht?  —  no,  you  wouldn't; 
for  the  gilt  swabs')  on  the  shoulders  can't  alter  the  heart 
that  swells  beneath ;  you  would  have  done  as  I  did ;  —  and 
what  did  I?  why,  I  cut  him  down  like  a  piece  of  old  junk;^) 
had  he  been  the  first  lord  of  the  Admiralty,  I  had  done  it! 
{overcome  with  emotion.) 

A  d  m.  Prisoner,  we  keenly  feel  for  your  situation ;  yet  you,  as  a 
good  sailor ,  must  know  that  the  course  of  justice  cannot  be 
evaded. 

Wil.  Your  honours,  let  me  be  no  bar  to  it;  I  do  not  talk  for  my 
life.  Death!  why  if  I  'scaped  it  here  —  the  next  capful  of 
wind  might  blow  me  from  the  yard-arm.  All  I  would  strive 
for,  is  to  show  I  had  no  malice;  all  I  wish  whilst  you  pass 
sentence,  is  your  pity.  That,  your  honours,  whilst  it  is  your 
duty  to  condemn  the  sailor,  may,  as  having  wives  you  honour 
and  children  you  love,  respect  the  husband. 

A  dm.     Have  you  anything  further  to  advance? 

Wil.     All  my  cable  is  run  out^)  —  I'm  brought  to. 

A  dm.  {and  all  the  Captains  rise.)  Prisoner!  it  is  now  my  most  pain- 
ful duty  to  pass  the  sentence  of  the  Court  upon  you.  The  Court 
commiserates  your  situation,  and,  in  consideration  of  your  services, 
wil  see  that  every  care  is  taken  of  your  wife  when  deprived  of 
your  protection. 

Wil.    Poor  Susan! 

A  d  m.  Prisoner !  your  case  falls  under  the  .twenty-second  Article 
of  War.  {reads.)  "If  any  man  in,  or  belonging  to  the  Fleet, 
shall  draw,  or  offer  to  draw,  or  lift  up  his  hand  against  his 
superior  officer,  he  shall  suffer  death."  (putting  on  his  hat.)  The 
sentence  of  the  Court  is,  that  you  be  hanged  at  the  fore-yard- 
arm  of  this  his  Majesty's  ship,  at  the  hour  of  ten  o'clock. 
Heaven  pardon  your  sins,  and  have  mercy  on  your  soul !  This 
Court  is  now  dissolved. 

William,  condemned  to  death,  bids  a  tender  farewell 
to  his  unhappy  wife:  but  he  ultimately  escapes,  being- 
at  the  last  moment  saved  by  the  timely  intervention 
of  the  now  penitent  Captain  Crosstree: 


*)  Officer's  epaulets.    *)  Old  cable  or  cordage.     ^)  I  have  told 
my  .story. 


—     214     — 

WilUam  and  Susan. 
Wil.    Oh  Susaul  Well,  my  poor  wench,  how  fares  it? 
Susan.     Oh,  William!  and  1  have  watched,  prayed  for  your  return 

—  smiled  in  the  face  of  poverty ,  stopped  my  ears  to  the  re- 
proaches of  the  selfish,  the  worst  pity  of  the  thoughtless  — 
and  all,  all  for  this!  ' 

W  i  1.  Ay,  Sue,  it's  hard ;  but  that's  all  over  —  to  grieve  is  useless. 
Susan,  I  might  have  died  disgraced  —  have  left  you  the  widow 
of  a  bad,  black-hearted  man;  I  know  'twill  not  be  so  —  and 
in  this,  wliilst  you  remain  behind  me,  there  is  at  least  some 
comfort.  I  died  in  a  good  cause;  1  died  in  defence  of  the 
virtue  of  a  wife  —  her  tears  will  fall  like  spring  rain  on  the 
grass  that  covers  me. 

Susan.  Talk  not  so  —  your  gravel  I  feel  it  is  a  place  where 
my  heart  must  throw  down  its  heavy  load  of  life. 

Will.  Gome,  Susan,  shake  off  your  tears.  There,  now,  smile  a 
bit  —  we'll  not  talk  again  of  graves.  Think ,  Susan ,  that  J 
am  a  going  on  a  long  foreign  station  —  think  so.  Now,  what 
would  you  ask  —  have  you  nothing,  nothing  to  say? 

Susan.  Nothing!  oh,  when  at  home,  hoping,  yet  trembling  for 
this  meeting,  thoughts  crowded  on  me,  I  felt  as  if  I  could  have 
talked  to  you  for  days.  Stopping  for  want  of  power,  not  words. 
Now  the  terrible  time  is  come  —  now  I  am  almost  tong^le-tied 

—  my  heart  swells  to  my  throat,  I  can  but  look  and  weep,  {gun 
fires.)  That  gun!  oh,  William!  husband!  is  it  so  near!  —  You 
speak  not  —  tremble. 

Wil.  Susan,  be  calm.  If  you  love  your  husband,  do  not  send  him 
on  the  deck  a  white-faced  coward.  Be  still,  my  poor  girl,  I 
have  something  to  say  —  until  you  are  calm,  I  will  not  utter 
it;  now  Susan 

Susan.    I  am  cold,  motionless  as  ice. 

Wil.  Susan!  you  know  the  old  aspen  that  grows  near  to  the  church 
porch ;  you  and  I,  when  children,  almost  before  we  could  speak 
plainly,  have  sat  and  watched,  and  wondered  at  its  shaking 
leaves  —  1  grew  up,  and  that  tree  seemed  to  me  a  friend  that 
loved  me,  yet  had  not  the  tongue  to  tell  me  so.  Beneath  its 
boughs  our  little  arms  have  been  locked  together  —  beneath 
its  boughs  I  took  the  last  kiss  of  your  white  lips  when  hard 
fortune  made  me  turn  sailor.  I  cut  from  that  tree  this  branch 
(produces  it).  Many  a  summer's  day  aboard,  I've  lain  in  the  top 
and  looked  at  these  few  leaves,  until  I  saw  green  meadows  in 
the  salt  sea,  and  heard  the  bleating  of  the  sheep.  When  I  am 
dead,  Susan,  let  me  be  laid  under  that  tree. 

Gun  fires.  —  Slow  Music.  —  William  gives  Susan  in  charge  of 
Seaweed,  kisses  her,  and  she  is  carried  off. 

Last  Scene. 
The  Forecastle   of   the  Ship.  —  Procession  along    the  starboard  gang^way. 
Master- at- Arms.    Prisoner,  are  you  prepared? 
Wil.     Ble.ss  you!  Bless  you  all  —  (mounts  the  platform). 


^       215       - 

Captain  Crosstree  (rushes  on  from  gangway).   Hold!  Hold! 

A  dm.    Captain  Crosstree  —  retire,  sir,  retire. 

C'ross.  Never!  if  the  prisoner  be  executed,  he  is  a  murdered  man. 
I  alone  am  the  culprit  —  'twas  I  who  would  have  dishonoured  him. 

A  dm.    This  cannot  plead  here  —  he  struck  a  superior  officer. 

Cross.    No! 

All.     No? 

Cross.  He  saved  my  life;  I  had  written  for  his  discharge  —  vil- 
lainy lias  kept  back  the  document  —  'tis  here  dated  back;  when 
William  struck  me  he  was  not  the  king's  sailor  —  I  was  not 
his  officer. 

.\dni.  {taking  the  paper         Music).    He  is  free! 

Bubbles  of  the  Day,  said  Charles  Kemble  the  actor, 
has  vnt  enough  for  three  pieces.  A  few  extracts  will 
suffice  to  prove  that  this  is  a  well-earned  eulogium. 

Sir  Phenix  Clearcake  and  Lord  Skindeep. 

►Sir  Phenix.  My  lord,  1  come  with  a  petition  to  you  —  a  petition 
not  parliamentary,  but  charitable.  We  propose,  my  lord,  a 
fancy  fair*)  in  Guildhall:  its  object  so  benevolent,  and  more  than 
that,  so  respectable! 

Skindeep.  Benevolence  and  respectability!  of  course,  I'm  with 
you.    Well,  —  the  precise  object? 

Sir  Ph.  It  is  to  remove  a  stain  —  a  very  great  stain  from  the 
city;  to  exercise  a  renovating  taste  at  a  most  inconsiderable 
outlay;  to  call  up  as  it  were  the  snowy  purity  of  Greece  in 
the  coal-smoke  atmosphere  of  London ;  in  a  word ,  my  lord  — 
but  as  yet  'tis  a  profound  secret  —   it  is  to  paint  St.  Paul's! 

Skind.     A  gigantic  effort! 

Sir  Ph.  The  fancy  fair  will  be  on  a  most  comprehensive  and 
philanthropic  scale.  Every  alderman  takes  a  stall;  —  and,  to 
give  you  an  idea  of  the  enthusiasm  in  the  city  ~  but  this  is 
also  a  secret  —  the  Lady  Mayoress  has  been  up  three  nights 
making  pincushions, 

Skind.    But  you  don't  want  me  to  take  a  stall  —  to  sell  pincushions  ? 

Sir  Ph.  Certainly  not,  my  lord.  And  yet  your  philanthropic  speeches 
in  the  house,  my  lord,  convince  me  that  to  obtain  a  certain 
good  you  would  sell  anything. 

Skind.  Well,  well;  command  me  in  any  way;  benevolence  is  my 
foible.  I  tell  you  what;  I've  some  splendid  Chinese  paintings 
on  rice-paper.  They're  not  of  the  least  use  to  me,  so  you  may 
have  them  for  the  charity. 

Another  projector,  Captain  Smoke,  who  has  served, 
as  he  says,  in  the  "Madras  Fusileers,"  now  enters,  and 

*)  A  temporary  bazaar,  conducted  by  ladies,  for  some  charitable 
object. 


—     216     ~ 

introduces  another  ingenious  scheme,  for  which  he 
solicits  the  co-operation  of  his  Lordship's  friends.  Mr. 
Brown  and  Mr.  Chatham  Brown: 

Smoke.  Our  family  was  always  military  —  always  distinguished. 
But  now  I  've  cut  up  my  sword  into  steel  pens  and  flourish 
the  weapons  in  the  cause  of  commerce.  We  are  about  to  start 
a  company  to  take  on  lease  Mount  Vesuvius  for  the  manufactory 
of  lucifer-matches. 

S  i  r  P  h.  A  stupendous  speculation !  I  should  say ,  that  when  its 
countless  advantages  are  duly  numbered,  it  will  be  found  a 
certain  wheel  of  fortune  to  the  enlightened  capitalist. 

Smoke.  Now,  su',  if  you  would  but  take  the  chair  at  the  first 
meeting  {Aside  to  Chatham)  Ave  shall  make  it  all  right  about  the 
shares ,  —  if  you  would  but  speak  for  two  or  three  hours  on 
the  social  improvement  conferred  by  the  lucifer-match,  with  the 
monopoly  of  sulphiu"  secured  to  the  company  —  a  monopoly 
which  will  suffer  no  man,  woman,  or  child  to  strike  a  light 
without  our  permission 

Brown.    He  '11  do  it,  of  course  he  *11  do  it. 

Chat.    Truly,  sir,  in  such  a  cause,  to  such  an  auditory  — 

Smoke.  Sir,  if  you  would  speak  well  anywhere,  there  's  nothing 
like  first  grinding  your  eloquence  on  a  mixed  meeting.  Depend 
on  't,  if  you  can  only  manage  a  little  humbug  with  a  mob,  it 
gives  you  great  confidence  for  another  place. 

Skind.    Smoke,  never  say  humbug;  it  's  coarse. 

Sir  Ph.    And  not  respectable. 

Smoke.  Pardon  me,  my  lord:  it  was  coarse.  But  the  fact  is,  humbug 
has  received  such  high  patronage,  that  now  it  "s  quite  classic. 

Chat.     But  why   not  embark  his  lordship   in  the  Inciter  question? 

Smoke.  I  can't:  I  have  his  lordsliip  in  three  companies  already. 
Three.  First,  there's  a  company  —  half  a  million  capital  - 
for  extracting  civet  from  assafoetida.  The  second  is  a  company 
for  a  trip  all  round  the  world.  We  propose  to  hire  a  three- 
decker  of  the  Lords  of  the  Admiralty,  and  fit  her  up  with 
every  accommodation  for  families.  AVe  've  already  advertised 
for  wet-nurses  and  maids-of-all-work. 

Sir  Ph.  A  magnificent  project!  And  then  the  fittings-up  will  be 
so  respectable.  A  delightful  billiard-table  in  the  ward-room;*) 
with,  for  the  humbler  classes,  skittels  on  the  orlop-deck.^)  Swings 
and  archerj'  for  the  ladies,  trap-ball  and  cricket  for  the  children, 
whilst  the  marine  sportsman  will  find  the  stock  of  gulls  un- 
limited.   Weippert's  quadi-ille  band  is  engaged,  and 

Smoke.    For  the  convenience  of  lovers,  the  ship  will  carrj'  a  parson. 

C'hat.    And  the  object? 

Smoke.  Pleasure  and  education.  At  every  new  country  we  shaU 
drop  anchor  for  at  least  a  week,   that  the  children  may  go  to 


')  Officers'  mess-room.    *)  Upper  deck  in  trading  vessels. 


—     217     — 

school  aud  learn  the  language.  The  trip  must  answer:  'twill 
occupy  only  three  years,  and  we  've  forgotten  nothing  to  make 
it  delightful  —  nothing,  from  hot  rolls  to  cork  jackets. 

Brown.     And  now,  sir,  the  third  venture? 

Smoke.  That,  sir,  is  a  company  to  buy  the  Serpentine  River  for 
a  (irand  Junction  Temperance  Cemetery. 

Brown,    ^^^lat!  so  many  watery  graves? 

Smoke.  Yes,  sir,  with  floating  tombstones.  Here  's  the  prospectus. 
Look  here;  surmounted  by  a  hyacinth  —  the  very  emblem  of 
temperance  —  a  hyacinth  flowering  in  the  limpid  flood.  Now, 
if  you  don't  feel  equal  to  the  Inciters  —  I  know  his  lordship's 
goodness,  —  he  '11  give  you  up  the  cemetery.  {Aside  to  Chatham) 
A  family  vault  as  a  bonus  to  the  chairman. 

Sir  Ph.  Wliat  a  beautiful  subject  for  a  speech!  Water-lilies  and 
aquatic  plants  gemming  the  translucent  crystal,  shells  of  rainbow 
brightness,  a  constant  supply  of  gold  and  silver  fish,  with  the 
right  of  angling  secured  to  shareholders.  The  extent  of  the 
river  being  necessarily  limited,  will  render  lying  there  so  select, 
so  very  respectable. 

In  Retired  from  Business,  we  have  an  amusing 
picture  of  a  shopkeeper  colony  in  the  village  of  Pump- 
kinfield.  Mr.  Pennyweight,  a  retired  gi^een  -  grocer  in 
comfortable  circumstances,  on  settling  down  in  the 
village  with  his  family,  is  informed,  by  Mr.  Puffins, 
-the  great  Russia  merchant,"  that  society  in  Pumpkin- 
field  consists  of  two  classes,  the  billocracy  and  the 
tillocracy,  the  former  comprising  the  aristocratic  traders 
who  had  enjoyed  a  bank-credit  and  drawn  bills  of  ex- 
change, the  latter  including  the  plebeian  retailers  who 
had  no  other  bank  than  the  till,  or  money -drawer  in 
the  shop-counter.  "The  counting-house,"  says  Mr.  Puf- 
fins, "knows  not  the  shop.  The  wholesale  merchant 
never  crosses  the  till."  In  spite  of  this  strict  line  of 
demarcation,  however,  there  are  presumptuous  persons, 
like  the  retired  pawnbroker  Jubilee,  who  are  always 
pushing  themselves  in  the  circle  of  the  billocrats,  and 
are  too  cool  and  self-possessed  to  be  easily  snubbed. 
Mr.  Jubilee  one  day  takes  occasion  to  tell  his  acquain- 
tances, how  hard  he  finds  it  to  forget  the  palmy  days 
when  he  dwelt  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  golden  balls: 

Jubilee.  Beg  pardon,  but  the  shop  will  rise.  Though  we  are 
retired  from  business,  business  wiU  come  back  to  us.  I  dare 
say  now,  on  winter  nights,  when  you  're  looking  at  the  candles, 


—     218     — 

your  thoughts  will  smell  the  dear  old  Russia  tallow,  eh?  And 
you,  Mr.  Creepmouse;  when  in  your  walks  you  see  the  bright 
poppies  among  the  corn,  doesn  't  your  heart  melt  again  towards 
the  soldiers'  coats  —  the  scarlet  cloth  you  've  made  your  money 
on?  To  be  sure;  nature,  even  in  an  army  tailor,  will  work. 
I  know  by  myself.  —  For,  last  week  there  was  a  party  at 
the  Sycamores.  —  Very  fine  folks.  Breaking  up  --  night  air 
cold:  a  lady  —  sweet  woman  —  gave  me  her  shawl  to  wrap 
about  her:  such  a  lovely  cachemere!  Took  my  thoughts  back 
in  a  minute  behind  the  counter.  Well,  still  looking  at  the 
shawl,  the  lady  still  waiting,  and  never  dreaming  where  I  was. 
would  you  think  it,  I  asked  —  ''What  on  this?" 

Poor  Mr.  Jubilee  is  persecuted  by  the  attentions 
of  Miss  Chipp,  an  elderly  milliner,  who  aspires  to  be 
the  second  Mrs.  Jubilee.  Having  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  recalcitrant  lover  at  the  Pennyweights'  door, 
Miss  Chipp  resolves  on  a  visit  to  the  new-comers.  Mrs. 
Pennyweight,  or  as  she  now  aspii^es  to  be  called,  Mrs. 
Fitzpenny weight,  receives  the  milliner  very  coldly,  but 
all  the  ice  soon  thaws,  when  Miss  Chipp  proceeds  to 
speak  of  the  distinguished  families,  with  whom  she 
represents  herself  as  on  terms  of  intimacy: 

Miss  Chipp.    Happy,  me'm,   to  meet  you.    {Aside.)    He  's  in  the 

garden. 
Mrs.   Penny.     You   're   very  good,   ma'am.     (Aside.)    She   talks 

retail;  her  mouth  looks  like  a  till.    But  no  —  tmst  me!  -- 

she  doesn't  sit  down  in  my  house. 
Miss  Chipp.    Nice  place,  Pumpkinfield;  the  name  odd.    flight 

be  prettier  with  another  name. 
Mrs.  Penny.    Yes,   Miss  Chipp;  perhaps  some  places,  like  some 

people,  would  be  very  glad  to  change  their  names. 
Miss  Chipp.    He!  he!  Change?  No  doubt;   and  some  people  do 

change  —  do  —  do  —  Mrs.  Fitzpennyweight. 
Mrs.  Penny.    [Aside.)    Oh!   if  she   's  coming  to   insinuations,  I 

should  think  I  could  match  her  there.    (Aloud.)    The  fact  is, 

ma'am  — 
Miss  Chipp.     I  ought  to   apologize.    But  I  thought,  as  there 

was  a  slight  tie  between  us  —  I  may  say,  a  little  cobweb 

tie,  that 

Mrs.  Penny.    I  for  myself,  ma'am,  don't  encourage  cobwebs. 
Miss  Chipp.    You  see,  my  dear  friend,  Lady  Buckle  — 
Mrs.  Penny.    Who? 
Miss  Chipp.    Lady  Buckle,  the  cousin  of  the  charming  Countess 

de  Crochet,  whose  niece,  the  Marchioness  of  Odonto  —  the  sister- 
in-law  of  that  sparkling  creature,  the  Duchess  of  Macassar  - 


—     219     — 

Mrs.  Pennj'.     [Who   has  drawn  down   a   chair.)     And   I    vow,   you 

're  standiiio!  l^ray  take  a  cliair.  Miss  Chipp, 
>[i8S  Chipp.     You  're  very  good.    {They  sit)    I  vras  about  to  say 

—  hid!  where  did  I  begin? 

Mrs.  Penny.     At  the  tie  between  us,   at  that  dear  little  cobweb. 

Miss  Chipp.  Tme.  Well,  Lady  Buckle  has  a  little  jo^rl  at  Calais, 
at  the  same  school  with  your  Kitty;  and  hearing  that  your 
daughter  was  come  home,  I  wished  to  enquire  about  the  child, 
because  I  promised  to  write  to  poor  Lady  Buckle,  who  is  anxious 
that  the  countess  should  communicate  with  the  marchioness, 
in  order  that  her  grace  the  duchess  may  have  the  first  intelli- 
gence.   And  I  thought  that  —  pray  pardon  me,  the  tie  —  the 

—  he!  he!  —  the  —  excuse  me  —  the  cobweb  — 
Mrs.  Penny.     A  cobweb,  ma'am,  I  'm  proud  to  be  in. 

Miss  Chipp.  Already  my  friends  have  heard  of  your  sweet  child, 
Miss  Pennyweight  —  pardon  me  —  Miss  Fitzpenny weight :  — 
by  the  way,  you  've  lately  had  an  increase  in  your  family  name? 

Mrs.  Penny.    Ye  —  es. 

Miss  Chipp.    Have  you  not  j^et  been  in  the  Gazette? 

Mrs.  Penny.     3Ia'am! 

Miss  Chipp.  xUways  done.  To  pass  a  new  name  without  the 
cro>Mi  stamp,  isn't  a  bit  more  reputable  than  to  pass  counter- 
feit money. 

Mrs.  Penny.  {Aside.)  La !  I  shall  never  hear  the  name  without 
thinking  myself  a  pocket-piece.  I  '11  stop  this.  {Aloud.)  Pray,, 
ma'am,  do  you  know  a  person  called  Jubilee  —  a  pawnbroker? 

Miss  Chipp.  I  knew  his  wife.  And  though  she  did  marry  a 
tradesman,  I  must  say  it,  I  stood  by  her  to  the  last. 

Mrs.  Penny.     Really? 

Miss  Chipp.  For  Emma  was  such  a  fairy:  but,  dear  Mrs.  Fitz- 
penny weight,  can  you  imagine  a  fairy  at  a  pawnbroker's? 

Mrs.  Pen n y.    I  shudder  at  the  recollec  —  at  the  idea  of  it. 

One  of  the  best  characters  is  Lieutenant  Tackle, 
an  old  sailor  who  has  taken  to  gardening.  Though  not 
very  successful  in  his  new  pursuit,  he  gives  young 
Woodburn  his  notion  of  what  an  average  crop  of  fruit 
should  be: 

Tackle.    Do  you  know  what  I  'm  on  the  look-out  for? 
Woodburn.    Snails? 

Tackle,  Snails!  No  —  though  they  're  the  plague  of  my  heart. 
Snails !  I  don't  grudge  'em  what  they  eat,  for  we  all  must  live 

—  but,  damn  'em,  it  's  what  they  spoil. 
Wood.    And  how  thrives  your  garden,  Lieutenant? 

Tackle.  Capital!  In  another  year  or  two  I  shall  eat  my  own 
radishes.  And  what  a  season  we  shall  have  for  cherries,  to 
be  sure! 

Wood.    Enough,  eh? 


—     220     — 

Tackle.  Why,  in  the  matter  of  cherries,  plums,  apples,  and  such 
like,  enough  isn't  enough  —  if  it  isn't  enough  three  times  over. 

Wood.     Three  times? 

Tackle.  Yes.  Enough  for  the  birds,  enough  for  the  boys,  and 
enough  for  the  master.     That  's  what  1  call  an  average  crop. 

In  his  youth,  Mr.  Jerrold  was  for  some  time  a 
midshipman  aboard  the  Ernest  gun -brig,  which  will 
partly  explain  the  happy  knack  he  possessed  in  di-awing 
sailors'  characters.  Among  his  other  successful  pieces 
we  shall  mention,  Nell  Gwynne,  the  Rent  Day  (founded 
on  Sir  David  A¥ilkie's  two  celebrated  pictures),  the 
Prisoner  of  War,  Time  works  Wonders,  and  Heart  of 
Gold.  All  these  are  rich  in  shrewd  drollery  and  pungent 
wit,  dashed  here  and  there  with  a  flash  of  poetry. 
Thus,  in  the  Prisoner  of  War,  Captain  Channel,  reproving 
his  daughter  for  wasting  her  time  in  reading  trashy, 
sensational  novels,  says: 

When  I  was  young,  girls  used  to  read  Pilgrim's  Progress, 
Jeremy  Taylor,  and  such  books  of  innocence ;  now  young  ladies 
know  the  ways  of  Newgate  as  well  as  the  turnkeys.  These  books 
gave  girls  hearty,  healthy  food;  now,  silly  things,  like  larks  in 
cages,  they  live  upon  hemp-seed; 

and  in  Time  woi^ks  Wonders  we  find: 

Florentine.     Oh,   sir,  the  magic  of  five  long  years!    We  paint 

Time  with  glass  and  scythe  —  should  he  not  carry  harlequin's 

own  wand?  for,  oh,  indeed.  Time's  changes! 
Clarence.  Are  they,  in  truth,  so  verj^  great? 
Flor.    Greater  than  harlequin's;  but  then  Time  works  them  with 

so  gTave  a  face,  that  even  the  hearts  he  alters  doubt  the  change, 

though  often  turned  from  very  flesh  to  stone. 
Clar.    Time  has  its  bounteous  changes  too;  and  sometimes  to  the 

sweetest  bud  will  give  an  imimagined  beauty  in  the  flower. 


John  Poole. 


Mr.  Poole,  the  popular  dramatist,  was  born  in  1792, 
and  his  first  piece,  entitled  Who's  who  ?  was  performed 
at  Drury  Lane  Theatre  so  early  as  1815.  From  that 
year  till  the  time  of  his  death  (about  1871)  he  produced, 
besides  numerous  contributions  to  the  Magazines,  a  large 
number   of  dramatic  pieces,   including  i)eaf  as  a  Post, 


—    221     — 

Paul  Pryy  Simpson  and  Co.,  Turning  the  Tables,  Patrician 
and  Parvenu,  Matchmaking ,  and  'Twixt  the  Cup  and  the 
Lip.  The  two  iirst-named  pieces  belong-  to  the  greatest 
theatrical  hits  of  the  day,  and  their  success  was  con- 
finned  by  the  admirable  acting-  of  Mr.  liston  in  the 
respective  characters  of  Tristram  Sappy  and  Paul  Pry. 
YroTSL  tlie  New  Monthly  Magazine  we  learn  that  the  idea 
of  the  caracter  of  Paul  Pry  was  suggested  to  Mr.  Poole 
by  an  intimate  friend,  the  original  being  an  idle  and 
inquisitive  old  lady  living  in  his  neighbourhood,  but 
the  dramatist,  wishing  to  avoid  personalities,  decided 
on  taking  a  man  as  the  representative  of  a  class.  The 
plot  to  a  certain  point  is  the  same  as  that  of  the  Vieux 
CMibataire  of  Collin  Hai'leville ;  and,  like  the  hero  of  the 
H'rench  piece,  Witherton  the  old  bachelor  is  governed 
and  bamboozled  by  two  tyi-annical  and  artful  domestics, 
who  intercept  his  nephew's  letters.  vSo  far  only  does 
Mr.  Poole  follow  the  French  writer;  for  lie  brings  about 
a  satisfactory  denouement  at  last  exclusively  by  means 
of  the  continual  intrusions  and  indiscretions  of  Paul 
Pry.  Mr.  Poole  says  of  the  piece :  "it  is  original  in 
stmcture,  plot.  chara(;ter  and  dialogue,  such  as  they  are. 
The  only  imitation  1  am  aware  of,  is  to  be  found  in 
part  of  the  business  in  which  Mrs.  Subtle  (the  house- 
keeper) is  engaged." 

Simpson  and  Co.  is  a  highly  amusing  piece.  The 
senior  partner,  a  steady -going  elderly  business  man, 
has  a  wife  who  is  jealous  without  a  shadow  of  reason, 
while  the  junior  partner,  a  gay,  flirting  young  husband, 
is  blessed  with  a  most  confiding  and  unsuspicious  con- 
sort. An  accidental  exchange  of  pocket-books  between 
the  partners,  and  the  discovery  of  a  woman's  portrait 
by  the  jealous  elder  lady  in  the  one  which  is  moment- 
arily in  possession  of  her  husband,  gives  rise  to  the 
most  comic  situations  and  the  drollest  quiproguos. 

In  Patrician  and  Parvenu,  two  characters  are  pre- 
sented to  us  in  strong  contrast  with  each  other,  the 
real  man  of  quality.  Sir  Osbaldiston  de  Mowbray,  Bart., 
and  the  former  cheesemonger.  Sir  Timothy  Stilton, 
Knight.    The  plot  is  made  up  of  a  series  of  amusing 


—     222     — 

misunderstandings,  which  for  a  time  create  inextricable 
confusion,  and  cause  a  constant  and  lively  though 
accidental,  and  on  the  part  of  the  baronet  displeasing 
intercourse,  between  the  refined  Patrician  and  the  ig- 
norant and  presumptuous  Parvenu. 

Of  Paul  Pry  there  is  another  version,  which  has 
appeared  under  the  name  of  Douglas  Jerrold,  but  it 
diifers  considerably  from  the  original  piece  by  Mr.  Poole. 


Charles  Reade.  -    Tom  Taylor. 

Charles  Reade,  the  novelist,  has  dramatised  two 
of  his  own  novels,  It*s  never  too  late  to  mend,  and  Put 
yourself  in  his  Place.  Mr.  Reade  was  born  at  Ipsden 
House,  Oxfordshire,  in  1814,  and  after  studying  at 
Cambridge,  was  called  to  the  bar  in  1843,  but  soon 
abandoned  the  law  to  devote  himself  to  literature.  When 
the  first  of  these  pieces,  in  which  the  author  exposes 
the  cruelties  inflicted  on  prisoners  by  tyrannical  governors 
of  gaols,  was  produced  at  the  Princess's  Theatre,  a 
dramatic  critic,  called  Tomlins,  rose  and  protested 
against  the  exaggeration  of  the  play,  a  step  which  led 
to  a  violent  discussion  between  him  and  Mr.  Reade  in 
the  newspapers.  The  other  piece,  Put  yourself  in  his 
Place,  depicts  the  struggles  of  a  skilled  workman  to 
rise  in  the  world,  and  the  persecution  he  suffers  from 
certain  Trades'  Unions,  to  which  he  has  become  ob- 
noxious. Both  these  dramas  were  successful  on  the 
stage.  Mr.  Reade  likewise  wrote  several  dramatic 
pieces  in  conjunction  with  Mr.  Tom  Taylor,  the  best 
of  which  was  entitled  Masks  and  Faces.    He  died  in  1884. 

Mr.  Tom  Taylor,  born  in  Sunderland  in  the  year 
1817,  is  the  author  of  the  dramas:  Joan  of  Arc, 
'Twixt  Axe  and  Croum,  and  the  FooVs  Revenge;  besides 
the  amusing  comedies,  the  contested  Election,  an  unequal 
Match,  Still  Waters  are  deep,  the  Overland  Route,  and 
some  other  pieces.  A  parlamentary  election  in  the  little 
town   of  Flamborough  forms  the   subject   of  the  first- 


i' 


—     223     — 

named  of  these  comedies.  Mr.  Honeybim,  a  retired 
grocer,  fond  of  liis  ease,  is  pushed  forward  as  a  can- 
didate, very  much  against  his  will,  by  his  ambitious 
wife  and  the  intriguing  attorney  Dodgson.  Perhaps  the 
best  scene  is  where  two  deputations  —  one  from  each 
of  the  two  political  parties  that  divide  the  borough  — 
arrive  at  the  same  moment  to  worry  the  perplexed 
Honeybun  with  teasing  and  embarrassing  questions ;  but 
Dodgson  with  great  dexterity  always  intervenes  to 
spare  him  the  necessity  of  attempting  explanations: 

(Enter  the  two  deputations.    Spitchcock  heads  the  one,  Gathercole  the  other, 

/oUotced  by  Cratcley,  Coppertkwaite,  Oldwinkle.  and  Electors,  shown  in  by 
James  and  another  Servant,  who  place  chairs  on  each  side  of  stage.) 

I'odc^son.  Pray  be  seated,  gentlemen.  Chahs  for  the  deputation, 
James,  (introducing)  Mr.  Honeybun,  Mr.  Gathercole  —  the 
enlightened  editor  of  the  Flamborough  Beacon;  Mr. 
Spitchcock,  editor  and  proprietor  of  the  Flamborough 
Patriot;  Mr.  Copperthwaite ,  Mr,  Crawley.  Mr.  Oldwinkle, 
and  other  influential  members  of  the  constituency  (they  all  sit). 
Mr.  Honeybun  is  most  anxious  to  give  the  fullest  explanation 
in  answer  to  any  questions  you  may  put  to  him;  at  the  same 
time,  he  claims  the  right  to  maintain  that  reserve  which  befits 
one  about  to  enter  on  the  arduous  and  responsible  duty  of 
legislation.     Now,  gentlemen. 

<Tathercole  (rises,  and  speaks  over  back  of  his  chair).  As  one  of 
those  who  signed  the  requisition  to  you,  sir,  on  this  occasion, 
and  as  the  mouth-piece  of  advanced  Liberalism  in  this  borough. 
I  have  been  requested  to  obtain  from  you,  sir,  a  categorical 
expression  of  your  views  on  tlie  subject  of  the  ballot,  —  whether 
you  consider  that  measure  is  not  necessary  to  secure  the  humbler 
class  of  voters  from  oppression,     (sits.) 

Spitchcock  {breaking  in  and  rising).  Or  if  its  effect  will  not  be 
rather  to  give  a  premium  to  deception ;  to  encourage  cowardice, 
and  to  destroy  that  manly  and  open  avowal  of  political  opinion 
which  has  hitherto  been  the  proud  characteristic  of  the  EngUsh- 
man.     {siUt.) 

(While  these  contradictions  are  being  exchanged,  Mr.  Honeybun  keeps 
looking  from  one  speaker  to  the  other.) 

Gather,  {interrupting  and  rising.)  I  can  readily  understand,  with 
Mr.  Spitchcock's  well  known  and  hebdomadally  reiterated  opinions, 
that  he  should  be  averse  to  any  change  which  will  limit  the 
oppressive  influence  of  territorial  interests,    {sits.) 

S pitch,  {rises.)  And  it  is  no  secret,  at  least  within  the  limited 
circulation  of  the  B  e  a  c  o  n ,  that  the  ballot  must  be  acceptable 
to  any  party  whose  aim  is  to  strengthen  the  hands  of  the 
demagogue,   and  to  deprive   the  humble  voter  of  the  parental 


—     224     — 

guidance  of  his  natural  protectors.  I  should  be  giad  to  know 
which  of  these  two  views  best  embodies  the  political  sentiments 
of  Mr.  Honeybun.    {siis.) 

Honey  bun.  {rises.)  Well,  really,  gentlemen,  I  must  observe  that 
there  seems  to  be  a  great  deal  to  say  on  both  sides,  {sits,  and 
wipes  perspiration  from  his  face.) 

Dodgson.  {rises.)  That  must  be  evident  to  all  who  have  the  ad- 
vantage of  perusing  our  own  admirable  local  prints;  and  such 
has  been  the  effect  of  the  consummate  power  with  which  these 
organs  have  Avielded  the  opposing  arguments  on  the  subject 
of  the  ballot,  that  Mr.  Honeybun's  opinion  remains  suspended, 
and  he  demands  a  further  opportunity  for  mature  consideration 
before  he  commits  himself  unreservedly  iipon  this  most  interest- 
ing question,    {sits.) 

Spitch.  {rises.)  If  M)'.  Honej'bun  is  satisfied  that  the  ballot  is 
cowardly  and  un-English  —  {sits.) 

Do  A.  {rises.)  He  authorized  me  to  say  tliat  lie  will  oppose  it  to 
the  uttermost,     {sits.) 

Hon.    To  the  uttermost! 

(rather,  {rises.)  But  if  he  be  convinced  that  without  it  the  real 
opinions  of  tiie  voters  cannot  be  freely  expressed  —  {sits.) 

Dod.    It  will  find  in  him  a  strenuous  and  consistent  supporter. 

Hon.     That  it  will. 

.Spitch.    The  destruction  of  territorial  and  intellectual  influence  — 

i)  0  d.    He  holds,  with  you,  would  be  most  mischievous  to  the  country. 

Hon.    Most  mischievous. 

Gather.  To  impose  a  check  on  every  oppressive  and  injurious 
exercise  of  the  power  of  capital  — 

Dod.  He  is  as  firmly  convinced  as  you  or  any  man,  is  the  impe- 
rative duty  of  an  enlightened  legislatui'e. 

Hon.    Imperati  ve .     {pause) 

Dod.  Mr.  Honeybun  having  now  stated  his  views  on  the  subject 
of  the  ballot,  he  will  be  glad  to  give  an  equally  explicit  answer 
on  any  other  subject  to  which  the  deputation  may  wish  to 
direct  his  attention. 

Copperthwaite.  I  should  like  to  know  how  you  would  vote 
on  a  reform  bill  disfi*anchising  this  here  borough. 

Hon.    Well,  if  you  ask  me,  I  should  decidedly  support  — 

Dod.  Any  measure  which  might  tend  to  secure  the  full  represen- 
tation of  every  class  of  the  community ;  but  as  the  disfranchise- 
ment of  Flamborough  would  be  a  step  in  quite  the  opposite 
direction  — 

Cranes.    Hear,  hear. 

D  o  d.  3Ir.  Honeybun  would  be  found,  at  whatever  risk  of  forfeiting 
your  favour,  most  decidedly  opposed  to  such  a  proceeding. 

Oranes.    Hear,  Hear. 

0  0  p.  I'm  glad  to  hear  that,  sir.  We're  all  reformers  in  a  general 
way;  but  reform  ain't  like  charity,  sir,  —  it  don't  begin  at 
liome.  We  don't  see  why  we  should  be  reformed  out  of  our 
votes,    {sits.) 


—    225    — 

Crawley  (rises.)  Which,  'owever  'umble,  we  have  always  done 
the  best  with  'em  for  ourselves  and  our  families,    (sits.) 

Dod.  Really  this  is  a  very  original  way  of  putting  it,  Mr.  Craw- 
ley; don't  you  think  so,  Mr.  Honeybun? 

Hon.    Oh,  very! 

Dod.  The  general  good  being  the  sum  of  individual  goods ,  every 
man  is  only  to  do  what  is  best  for  himself  in  order  that  the' 
country  may  obtain  what  is  best  for  all. 

Old  winkle  (rises.)  I  should  like  to  hear  Mr.  Honeybun's  opiaioiu 
about  game  laws. 

Hon.  (rises.)    Well,  I'm  not  a  sportsman,  myself,  and  —  (sits.) 

Gather,  (rises.)  Therefore,  sir,  I  trust  cannot  advocate  any  system; 
of  laws  which  encourages  poaching,  leads  to  numerous  breaches 
of  the  peace,  and  fills  the  county  gaols,    (sits.) 

Dod.    Certainly  not! 

Hon.    Certainly  not! 

i> pitch.  At  the  same  time,  Mr.  Honeybun  can  scarcely  deny  that 
to  put  an  end  to  the  sports  of  the  field  would  be  to  discourage 
manly  activity;  to  remove  a  great  inducement  to  resident  owner- 
ship ;  and  to  largely  diminish  a  wholesome,  a  favourite,  and  a 
succulent  article  of  culinary  consumption. 

Do>d.  Ml*.  Honeybun  would  be  the  last  man  to  deny  conclusions 
which,  thus  stated,  must  commend  themselves  to  the  meanest 
capacity. 

Hon.    To  the  meanest  capacity. 

Cop.    How  about  Church-rates? 

Craw.    Ought  refreshments  to  be  allowed  to  voters? 

Dod.  Really,  gentlemen,  Mr.  Honeybun  cannot  be  expected  to 
answer  you  all  at  once ;  but  one  of  your  questions  he  did  catch 
distinctly:  whether  refreshments  ought  to  be  allowed  to  voters? 
a  question  he  is  prepared  to  answer  with  equal  dis^tinctness, 
by  requesting  that  you  will  do  him  the  honour  of  partaking 
of  lunch,  which  you  will  find  ready  in  the  dining-room. 

Omnes.    Hear,  hear. 

Gather.    He's  very  kind,  I'm  sure.    What  do  you  say,  Spitchcock  ? 

ISpitch.  With  all  my  heart.  Political  differences  should  never 
narrow  the  field  of  social  intercourse. 

C'raw.  Well,  I  must  say,  Mr.  Honeybun,  you've  met  us  as  fair 
and  pleasant  as  any  gentleman  could,  and  we  shall  be  proud 
and  happy  to  drink  your  very  good  health,  sir ;  and  success  to 
your  election,  sir.     (They  all  rise.) 

Cop.  And  I  only  wish  I  could  be  a  deputation  every  day  of  the 
week  to  hear  such  a  werry  satisfactory  statement  of  opinions 
as  you've  guv'  us  this  morning. 

Dod.  (showing  them  out.)  This  way,  gentlemen  —  (Exit  deputatioUy 
Dodgson  rmhing  hack  to  Honeybun.)  My  dear  sir,  you  managed 
them  beautifully. 

The  subject  of  "An  unequal  Match"  is  the  marriage 
of  a  man  of  rank,   Sir  Harry  Arncliffe,  with  Hester 

15 


—     226     ~ 

Grazebrook,  a  blacksmith's  handsome  daughter,  and  the 
intrigues  of  Mrs.  Montressor,  an  envious  coquettish 
widow,  to  mar  their  domestic  happiness.  Sir  Harrj* 
is  for  a  time  deceived  by  the  artifices  of  the  widow, 
whom  he  takes  for  his  sincere  friend,  but  Hester  is 
more  clear-sighted.  The  following  encounter  between  the 
two  ladies  will  remind  the  reader  of  that  "thrust-and- 
parry"  wit,  of  which  Sheridan  was  such  a  master: 

Mrs.  M 0 n t r e s s or.  Oh,  my  dear  Lady  Arncliffe,  I  should  apologise 
for  playmg  truant  so  long-  this  morning;  but  I  find  that  you 
have  been  very  naughty,  too. 

Hester.    Did  Sir  Harry  complain  of  me  to  you? 

Mrs.  M.    Oh,  no;  he  knows  I  always  take  your  part. 

Hester.    You  take  my  part! 

Mrs.  M.  Yes;  men  are  so  unreasonable,  they  never  will  make 
allowances. 

Hester.    Few  women  like  to  admit  that  they  require  them. 

Mrs.  M.  As  I  tell  him;  when  he  has  picked  a  cowslip,  it  is  most 
mifair  to  be  angry  that  it  is  not  an  exotic.  You  wild  flowers 
have  quite  advantages  enough  over  us  poor  sickly  products  of 
the  conservatory  without  insisting  on  adding  our  cultivated 
graces  to  your  native  freshness.  For  my  part,  I  adore  wild 
flowers.  I  dare  say  now,  my  dear  Lady  Arncliffe,  you  wouldn't 
believe  me  if  I  confessed  to  you  that  I  envy  you  terribly. 

Hester.  You  could  tell  me  few  things,  Mrs.  Montressor,  that 
would  less  surprise  me. 

Mrs.  M.  Satirical,  eh?  Oh  fie!  Pray,  my  dear,  don't  try  to  teach 
that  innocent  little  tongue  of  yours  the  art  of  stabbing;  leave 
that  to  women  of  the  Avorld. 

Hester.  I  know  I  am  no  match  for  you  in  the  power  of  inflicting 
pain. 

M  r  s.  M.  Take  care !  Tliat's  an  admission  of  inferiority.  The  power 
of  inflicting  pain  is  generally  proportionate  to  the  capacity  for 
giving  pleasure. 

Hester.  Then  you  must  have  a  good  deal  of  that  capacity,  Mrs. 
Montressor. 

Mrs.  M.  Well,  I  think,  without  flattering  myself,  I  have  a  fair 
share;  that  is,  if  the  lords  of  the  creation  may  be  believed. 

Hester.    Even  I  have  heard   of  the  numbers  you  have  enslaved. 

Mrs.  M.  You  are  complimentary.  I  suppose  Sir  Harry  has  given 
you  a  sad  idea  of  me.  But  a  rejected  admirer,  you  know,  dear, 
is  not  always  to  be  relied  on.  Of  course,  you  are  aware  1 
refused  him? 

Hester.    I  have  heard  so. 

Mrs.  M.  By -the -by,  it  was  just  before  we  met  him  at  your 
father's. 

Hester.    And  when  my  father  saved  your  life. 


—     227     — 

Mrs.  M.  Precisel}^;  your  family  is  so  muscular.  By-the-way,  I 
hear  the  worthy  old  man  has  paid  you  a  visit.  How  delighted 
Sir  Harry  must  be  to  see  him.  What  a  refreshing  contrast  to 
everything-  round  about  him;  and  how  amusingly  embarrassed 
he'll  be  in  the  midst  of  your  new  splendour ! 

Hester  {rising.)  My  father,  Mrs.  Montressor,  is  a  homely,  but  an 
honest  man:  if  he  is  embarrassed,  it  must  be  from  contact 
with  hypocrisy,  heartlessness,  and  affectation. 

Mrs.  M.  (rising.)  Our  friends  in  the  breakfast -room  may  share 
that  amongst  them.  But  I  admire  you  firing  up  for  your  father, 
and  I'll  take  care  to  remember  that  pretty  sentence  of  yours 
in  case  Sir  Harry  should  appeal  to  me  on  the  subject. 

Hester.    My  husband  appeal  to  you! 

Mrs.  M.  Poor  fellow!  old  associations  are  so  strong.  He  will  not 
forget  that  I've  no  longer  any  right  to  be  his  confidante. 

Hester.  Have  you  done  your  best  to  make  him  forget  it?  Have 
you  not  rather  tried  to  bring  him  once  more  to  your  feet?  to 
rivet  afresh  the  broken  chain? 

Mrs.  M.  That  metaphor  is  too  strong  of  the  forge  for  you  to 
venture  upon,  my  dear  Lady  Arncliffe.  As  for  my  influence 
with  Sir  Harry,  it's  perhaps  lucky  for  you  that  I'm  not  quite 
so  eager  for  conquest  as  you  fancy.  Did  I  rate  my  own 
fascinations  so  highly  I  might  be  tempted  to  hold  up  my  finger 
and  see  if  he  would  follow.  A  man  must  have  some  woman 
who  understands  him  and  the  way  of  his  world.  There  are 
social  as  well  as  personal  sympathies ;  you  know  he  cannot  find 
both  in  you. 

Hester  (loitk  a  strong  effort.)  All  that  woman  can  contribute  to 
man's  happiness  I  claim  to  give  my  husband,  and  I  alone.  I 
was  happy  till  you  came  here;  my  husband  never  blushed  for 
me  till  you  taught  him,  but  now  there  is  a  cloud  between  us 
that  darkens  our  happy  home  —  it  is  you  who  have  raised  it. 
Mrs.  Montressor,  there  must  be  no  disguise  between  us  now  — 
this  house  is  no  place  for  you  and  me  together.  I  am  its 
mistress ! 

Mrs.  M.  Unluckily  it  was  Sir  Harry  who  invited  me.  You  had 
better  ask  him  to  give  me  my  conge,  and  tell  him  the 
reason. 

Hester.  Take  care!  Shall  I  tell  him  that  the  woman  he  had 
invited  here  to  be  his  wife's  friend  and  example  had  used  her 
time  to  poison  the  wife's  faith,  to  undermine  the  husband's 
love?  He  might  blame  me  for  being  jealous;  he  must  despise 
you,  because  you  are  treacherous  and  base. 

Mrs.  M.    And  yet  you  fear  me. 

Hester.  Only  while  you  wear  your  mask.  If  I  tear  it  off  you 
are  harmless. 

Mrs.  M.    Lady  Arncliffe,  is  this  defiance? 

Hester.    No,  Mrs.  Montressor;  it  is  detection!    {Exit  Hester.) 


15* 


228 


Thomas  William  Robertson. 

Mr.  Robertson,  born  in  1839  at  Newark-on-Trent, 
Nottinghamshire,  the  son  of  an  actor  and  an  actor 
himself,  is  the  author  of  Ours,  Society,  School,  Play, 
Caste,  and  some  other  pieces,  which  are  all  neatly  and 
ingeniously  constructed,  but  not  remarkable  for  strength, 
pathos  or  humour.  Mr.  Eobertson,  who  is  married  to 
a  German  lady,  spent  some  time  in  Germany,  and  it 
was  from  a  play  then  popular  on  the  German  stage, 
called  Aschenbrodel,  that  he  got  the  first  idea  of  School. 
When  the  last-named  piece  was  produced  in  London, 
the  author  was  assailed  in  an  angry  letter  in  the  Tiines 
as  a  plagiarist;  but  his  defence  was  undertaken  by 
Mr.  John  Oxenford,  who  showed  that  the  piece  had 
been  so  much  altered  and  made  so  thoroughly  English, 
by  Mr.  Eobertson,  that  it  had  just  claims  to  be  con- 
sidered a  new  play.  Ours  (that  is.  Our  RegimentJ  has 
a  plot  based  on  the  Crimean  War,  and  was  made  po- 
pular by  the  three  leading  characters:  Mary  Nesley, 
a  light-hearted  young  girl,  strong  in  her  own  innocence; 
Hugh  M'Alister,  an  amiable  male  flirt,  given  to  verse- 
making  ;  and  Sergeant  Jones,  the  honest  and  affectionate 
soldier.  But  Mr.  Eobertson's  most  popular  production 
is  his  three-act  comedy.  Society.  We  subjoin  the  capital 
scene,  in  which  the  vulgar  but  wealthy  upstart,  Mr. 
John  Chodd,  does  his  utmost  to  entice  the  impecunious 
young  barrister,  Sidney  Daryl,  to  introduce  him  into 
the  circles  to  which  his  riches  have  hitherto  proved 
no  passport: 

Chodd,  jmi.  Business  is  business  —  so  I'd  best  begin  at  once. 
The  present  age  is,  as  you  are  aware  —  a  practical  age.  I 
come  to  the  point  —  it's  my  way.  Capital  commands  the  world. 
The  capitalist  commands  capital,  therefore  the  capitalist  com- 
mands the  world. 

Sidney.    But  you  don't  quite  conmiand  the  world,  do  you? 

Chodd,  jun.  Practically,  I  do.  I  wish  for  the  highest  honours  — 
I  bring  out  my  cheque-book.*)  I  want  to  get  into  the  House 
of  Commons  —  cheque-book.  I  want  the  best  legal  opinion 
in  the  House  of  Lords  —  cheque-book.    The  best  house  — 


')  A  book  containing  blank  money-orders  on  a  bank. 


—    229    — 

cheque-book.    The  best  turn-out  —  cheque-book.    The  best 

friends,  the  best  wife,  the  best-trained  children  —  cheque-book, 

cheque-book,  and  cheque-book. 
Sidney.    You  mean  to  say  with  money  you  can  purchase   any- 
thing ? 
C  h  0  d  d ,  jun.    Exactly.    This  life  is  a  matter  of  bargain. 
Sidney.     But  "honour,  love,  obedience,  troops  of  friends." 
Chodd,  jun.    Can  buy  'em  all,  sir,  in  lots  as  at  an  auction. 
Sidney.    Love,  too? 
Chodd,  jun.    Marriage  means  a  union  mutually  advantageous.    It 

is  a  civil  contract  like  a  partnership. 
Sidney.    And  the   old-fashioned  virtues  of  honour  and  chivalry? 
Chodd,  jun.    Honour  means  not  being  a  bankrupt.   I  know  nothing 

at  all  about  chivalry,  and  I  don't  want  to. 
Sidney.    Well,  yours  is  quite  a  new  creed  to  me,   and  I  confess 

I  don't  like  it. 
Chodd,  jun.    The  currency,  sir,  converts  the  most  hardened  sceptic. 

I  see  by  the  cards  on  your  glass  that  you  go  out  a  good  deal. 
Sidney.    Go  out? 
Chodd,  jun.     Yes,   to  parties  {looking  at  cards   on  table.)     There's 

my  Lady  this ,   and  the  Countess  t'other ,   and  Mrs.   somebody 

else.    Now  that's  what  I  want  to  do. 
Sidney.    Go  into  society? 

Chodd,  jun.    Just  so.    You  had  money  once,  hadn't  you? 
Sidney.    Yes. 

Chodd,  jun.    What  did  you  do  with  it? 
Sidney.     Spent  it. 

Chodd,  jun.    And  you've  been  in  the  army? 
Sidney.    Yes. 
Chodd,  jun.     Infantry? 
Sidney.    Cavalry. 
Chodd,  jun.    Dragoons? 
Sidney.     Lancers. 

Chodd,  jim.    How  did  you  get  out  of  it? 
Sidney.    Sold  out.*) 
Chodd,  jun.    Then  you  were  a  first-rate  fellow,   till  you  tumbled 

dowTi  ? 
Sidney.    Tumbled  down! 
Chodd,  jun.    Yes,  to  what  you  are. 


Chodd,  jun.    As  I  was  saying,  you  know  lots  *)  of  people  at  clubs, 

and  in  society. 
Sidney.    Yes. 

Chodd,  jun.    Titles  and  Honourables,  and  Captains,  and  that. 
Sidney.    Yes. 


*)  English  officers  were  formerly  permitted  to  sell  their  com- 
missions on  retiring  from  the  service.  *)  A  familiar  word,  meaning 
''a  great  number." 


—     230     — 

Chodd,  jun.     Tiptoppers*)  [after  a  pause.)     You're  not  well  off? 

Sidney  (getting  serious.)    No. 

C  h  0  d  d ,  jun.  I  am.  I've  heaps  of  brass. ^)  Now  I  have  what  you 
haven't,  and  I  haven't  what  you  have.  You've  got  what  I 
want,  and  I've  got  w^hat  you  want.    That's  logic,  isn't  it? 

Sidney  (gravely.)     What  of  it? 

C  h  0  d  d ,  jun.  This :  suppose  we  exchange  or  barter.  You  help  me 
to  get  into  the  company  of  men  with  titles ,  and  women  with 
titles;  swells,^)  you  know,  real  uns,  and  all  that. 

Sidney.    Yes. 

Chodd,  jun.    And  I'll  write  you  a  cheque  for  any  reasonable  sum 

you  like  to  name. 

*  * 

* 

Sidney.  Mr.  Chodd,  I  cannot  entertain  youi*  very  commercial  pro- 
position. My  friends  are  my  friends;  they  are  not  marketable 
commodities.  I  regret  that  I  can  be  of  no  assistance  to  you. 
With  your  appearance,  manners,  and  cheque-book,  you  are  sure 
to  make  a  circle  of  your  own. 

Chodd,  jun.    You  refuse,  then  — 

Sidney.    Absolutely.    Good  morning. 


Other  dramatic  Writers. 

Mr.  Leigh  Hunt  produced,  in  1840,  a  play  called 
a  Legend  of  Florence,  in  which  the  part  of  the  heroine 
—  a  wife  buried  while  in  a  trance ,  who ,  on  escaping* 
from  the  tomb,  is  disowned  by  her  husband  —  was 
performed  with  great  applause  by  Miss  Ellen  Tree 
(afterwards  Mrs.  Charles  Kean);  and  in  1858,  a  year 
before  the  author's  death,  another  piece  of  his,  called 
Lovers  Amazements,  was  brought  successfully  on  the 
stage.  Several  dramas  have  been  also  written  by  Dr. 
Westland  Marston.  One  of  these,  the  Patricians  Daughter, 
a  love-tale,  in  which  the  hero  is  a  poor  but  rising  young 
politician,  and  the  heroine  the  daughter  of  a  nobleman 
and  minister  of  state,  was  brought  into  high  favour 
with  the  public  by  the  admirable  acting  of  Miss  Helen 
Faucit.  The  Heart  of  the  World,  and  a  tragedy  called 
Strathmore,  obtained,  on  the  other  hand,  a  very  moderate 
success.     In  his  latest  dramatic  work.  Under  Fire,  Dr. 

')  Slang  for   "people   of  rank."    ^)  Slang  term  for   "money." 
')  Dandies,  or  people  in  good  society. 


—    231     — 

Marston  introduces  us  to  a  lady  in  liigli  life,  who  having 
begun  her  career  as  a  public  concert-singer,  is  morbidly 
sensitive  to  the  faintest  allusion  to  professional  musi- 
cians, and  this  is  the  pivot  on  which  a  rather  meagre 
plot  turns.  Mr.  Mark  Lemon,  Mr.  Gilbert  Abbot  a  Beckett, 
and  Mr.  Shirley  Brooks,  all  wrote  farces  and  little 
comedies,  but  they  gained  their  literary  laurels  chiefly 
as  contributors  to  the  London  Punch.  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins 
produced  two  sensational  dramas,  the  Light -house  and 
the  Frozen  Deep.  The  last-named  piece,  in  which  a 
young  naval  officer,  who  has  joined  a  polar  expedition, 
discovers  in  a  sick  and  helpless  comrade  his  detested, 
though  till  then  unknown  rival,  but  overcome  by  pity 
and  a  sense  of  duty,  rescues  him  from  certain  death 
at  the  cost  of  his  own  life,  met  with  an  enthusiastic 
reception  from  the  public;  to  which,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, such  accessories  as  the  grand  and  wonderful 
Arctic  scenery,  with  its  glaciers,  icebergs,  and  snow- 
peaks,  not  a  little  contributed.  Mr.  Blanche  has  wiitten 
some  good  pieces,  particularly  an  historical  comedy, 
called  Charles  XIL  The  scene  is  the  island  of  Rligen, 
and  the  date  is  the  time  of  Charles's  hasty  return, 
under  a  borrowed  name,  from  Bender  in  Turkey.  Mr. 
Pinero's  principal  work  is  the  Money  -  Spinner ,  a  piece 
wdth  two  interesting  and  amusing  characters,  a  French 
detective  officer  and  the  eccentric  Baron  Croodle.  Mr. 
Buckstone,  Mr.  Charles  Matthews  the  younger,  Mr.  Howard 
Paul,  Mr.  Dion  Bourcicault,  and  Mr.  J.  Oxenford,  have 
successfully  imitated  or  adapted  several  pieces  by 
French  dramatists.  The  two  last -mentioned  writers 
have  also  produced  in  collaboration  the  text  of  a  highly 
successful  opera,  entitled  the  Lily  of  Killamey^  founded 
on  Gerald  Griffin's  fine  novel,  the  Collegians,  and  set 
to  music  by  the  late  Sir  Julius  Benedict.  Mr.  Brough, 
Mr.  Leman  Rede,  Mr.  Fitzball,  Mr.  Coyne,  and  Mr.  Sul- 
livan have  likewise  written  several  dramas,  comedies 
or  farces  greeted  with  an  ephemeral  success,  but  of 
which  very  few  seem  likely  to  secure  a  permanent 
place  on  the  stage  or  in  the  annals  of  English  literature. 


AMERICAN  POETS  AND  DRAMATISTS. 


In  every  work  on  English  literature  in  the  Victorian 
Age.  an  honourable  place  must  be  assigned  to  those 
American  writers  who  during  the  same  period  have  so 
well  sustained  the  poetical  reputation  of  their  country. 
Not  only  are  their  productions  English,  in  the  sense  of 
being  composed  in  the  English  language,  but  some  of 
them  were  originally  published  by  their  authors  in  Lon- 
don, while  many  others  appeared  simultaneously  in 
England  and  America ;  hence  no  mean  portion  of  modern 
American  literature  has  been,  so  to  speak,  naturalized 
on  English  soil. 

The  most  esteemed  American  poets  belong  to  the 
lyrical  school.  Didactic  poetry  is  less  cultivated  in 
America ;  and  though  a  few  poems  —  especially  Long- 
fellow's longer  ones  —  have  been  called  epics,  nothing 
as  yet  has  been  produced  in  America  which  European 
critics  would  regard  as  a  true  epic  poem.  In  dramatic 
composition,  too,  America  has  achieved  but  little.  Hill- 
house,  Longfellow,  Bayard  Taylor,  and  some  other 
poets,  have  no  doubt  written  dramas,  but  still  America 
cannot  yet  boast  of  a  great  dramatist,  and  the  repertoire 
of  the  American  theatres  is  on  the  whole  identical  with 
that  of  the  English  stage. 

In  the  space  at  our  disposal,  we  cannot  pretend 
to  do  more  than  offer  the  reader  a  summary  of  the 
most  noted  American  writers,  in  tliis  department  of 
literature,  who  were  still  writing  in  1837,  or  have  since 
then  appeared,  giving  at  the  same  time  a  few  selected 
specimens  from  their  works.    We  shall  begin  with 


234 


E.  A.  Poe. 

The  unfortunate  genius,  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  was  born 
in  Baltimore,  in  January  1811.  His  father,  David  Poe, 
was  for  some  years  a  law-student,  but  having  made 
the  acquaintance  of  a  young  English  actress,  called 
Elizabeth  Arnold,  he  married  her,  and  became  an  actor 
himself.  About  seven  years  later,  they  both  died,  within 
a  few  weeks  of  each  other,  leaving  three  children 
quite  unprovided  for.  Edgar,  the  second  of  the  family, 
was  adopted  by  a  wealthy  and  benevolent  merchant, 
Mr.  John  Allan,  who  was  married  but  childless.  In 
1816,  this  gentleman  took  young  Poe  with  him  to  Eng- 
land, and  put  him  to  school  at  Stoke  Newington,  near 
London.  When  the  lad  returned  to  America  in  1822, 
he  for  some  time  attended  an  academy  in  Richmond, 
and  then  went  to  the  University  at  Charlottesville, 
where  he  fell  into  that  dissipated  course  of  life,  from 
which  he  never  afterwards  could  be  reclaimed.  Manners 
at  Charlottesville  were  generally  dissolute,  but  of  all 
the  students  Poe  was  the  wildest  and  the  most  reckless. 
Being  desirous  of  embracing  the  military  profession, 
he  was  sent  by  his  kind  patron,  Mr.  Allan,  to  West 
Point  Academy,  but  though  at  first  a  favourite  with 
the  professors  and  the  other  cadets,  he  soon  renewed 
his  irregularities,  and  ten  months  after  his  matriculation 
was  expelled  from  the  institution.  In  the  mean  time 
Mr.  Allan  had  re-married,  and  when  he  died  in  1834, 
he  left  three  children  to  inherit  his  property,  and 
bequeathed  nothing  to  his  former  proUge.  From  1834 
to  1837  Poe  wrote  for  the  Southern  Literary  Messenger 
in  Richmond,  and  during  this  time  he  married  his  cousin, 
Virginia  Klemm.  She  was  as  poor  as  himself,  but  he 
was  warmly  attached  to  her,  and  by  her  patience  and 
tenderness  she  exercised  a  salutary  influence  on  lier 
unfortunate  husband  till  her  death  in  1846.  The  poet 
lias  immortalized  her  in  his  beautiful  poem,  Annabel  Lee. 
'I^hree  years  later  —  on  the  7  th  Oct.  1849,  Poe 
died  of  delirium  tremens  in  a  Baltimore  hospital,  at  the 
age  of  thirty-eight. 


The  most  characteristic  of  Poe's  poems  is  probably 
the  gloomy  and  fantastic  Raven,  though  we  confess  we 
have  never  read  it  with  pleasure.  Sitting  alone  in  his 
chamber  in  "bleak  December,"  the  poet  hears  a  tapping 
at  his  window  lattice,  and  on  opening  tlie  shutter  there 
steps  in  "a  stately  Raven  of  the  saintly  days  of  yore." 
This  "ebony  bird"  perches  on  a  bust  of  Pallas,  and  in 
reply  to  the  questions  or  thoughts  of  his  host,  croaks 
forth  the  same  ill-omened  reply,  "Nevermore!"  Passing 
over  these  sombre  verses,  we  select  as  our  specimens 
one  of  Poe's  most  varied  and  powerful  poems,  and  the 
sweet  and  tender  lines  to  which  we  have  already 
alluded;  both  of  which  have  been  set  to  music  by 
Balfe,  the  composer  of  the  Bohemian  Girl. 

THE  BELLS. 


Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells  — 
Silver  bells! 
What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody  foretells ! 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

In  the  icy  air  of  night! 
While  the  stars  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens,  seem  to  twinkle 

With  a  crystalline  delight; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme. 
To  the  tintinnabulation  that  so  musically  wells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells  — 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bells. 


11. 

Hear  the  mellow  wedding  bells, 
Golden  bells! 
What  a  world  of  happiness  their  harmony  foretells! 
Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight! 
From  the  molten-golden  notes 

And  all  in  tune, 
What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 
To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens  while  she  gloats 
On  the  moon! 


—     236     — 

Oh,  from  out  the  soundings  cells, 
What  a  gush  of  euphony  voluptuously  wells! 
How  it  swells 
How  it  dwells 
On  the  Future!  how  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels 
To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Of  the  beUs,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

BeUs,  bells,  bells  ~ 
To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of  the  bells ! 


III. 

Hear  the  loud  alarum  bells  — 
Brazen  bells! 
What  a  tale  of  terror  now  their  turbulency  tells ! 
In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  affright! 
Too  much  horrified  to  speak, 
They  can  only  shriek,  shriek, 
Out  of  tune, 
In  a  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy  of  the  fire, 
In  a  mad  expostulation  with  the  mad  and  frantic  fire 
Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher. 
With  a  desperate  desire, 
And  a  resolute  endeavour 
Now  —  now  to  sit  or  never. 
By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon. 
Oh,  the  bells,  bells,  bells! 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 

Of  Despair! 
How  they  clang,  and  clash,  and  roar. 
What  a  horror  they  outpour 
On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air! 
Yet  the  ear  it  fully  knows 
By  the  twanging. 
And  the  clanging. 
How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows; 
Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells 

In  the  jangling, 
And  the  wrangling, 
How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells, 
By  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the  anger  of  the  bells 
Of  tlie  bells  — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells  — 
In  the  clamour  and  the  clangour  of  the  bells! 


237 


IV. 

Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells  — 
Iron  bells! 
What  a  world  of  solemn  thought  their  monody  compels! 
In  the  silence  of  tlie  night, 
How  we  shiver  with  aftright 
At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their  tone! 
For  every  sound  that  floats 
From  the  rust  witliin  their  throats 

Is  a  groan. 
And  the  people  —  all,  the  people  — 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple 

All  alone, 
And  who  tolling,  tolling,  tolling, 

In  that  muffled  monotone. 
Feel  a  glory  in  so  rolling 

On  the  human  heart  a  stone  — 
They  are  neither  man  nor  woman  — 
They  are  neither  brute  nor  human  — 

They  are  Ghouls: 
And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls; 
And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls. 
Rolls 
A  paean  from  the  bells! 
And  his  merry  bosom  swells 

With  the  paean  of  the  bells ! 
And  he  dances,  and  he  yells; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time. 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme 

To  the  paean  of  the  bells  — 
Of  the  bells: 
Keeping  time,  time,  time. 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells  — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells. 

To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time. 

As  he  knells,  knells,  knells. 
In  a  happy  Runic  rhyme 

To  the  rolling  of  the  bells  — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells  — 

To  the  tolling  of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells  — 
To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the  bells. 


—     238     — 

ANNABEL  LEE. 

It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago. 

In  a  kingdom  by  the  sea/) 
That  a  maiden  there  lived  whom  you  may  know 

By  the  name  of  Annabel  Lee; 
And  this  maiden  she  lived  with  no  other  thought 

Than  to  love  and  be  loved  by  me. 

I  was  a  child  and  she  was  a  child, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea: 
But  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more  than  love  — 

I  and  my  Annabel  Lee; 
With  a  love  that  the  winged  seraphs  of  heaven 

Coveted  her  and  me. 

And  this  was  the  reason  that,  long  ago, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
A  wind  blew  out  of  a  cloud,  chilling 

My  beautiful  Annabel  Lee; 
So  that  her  high-born  kinsmen  came 

And  bore  her  away  from  me, 
To  shut  her  up  in  a  sepulchre 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea. 

The  angels,  not  half  so  happy  in  heaven, 

Went  envying  her  and  me  — 
Yes !  —  that  was  the  reason,  (as  all  men  know, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea) 
That  the  wind  came  out  of  the  cloud  by  night, 

Chilling  and  killing  my  Annabel  Lee. 

But  our  love  it  was  stronger  by  far  than  the  love 

Of  those  who  were  older  than  we  — 

Of  many  far  wiser  than  we  — 
And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above. 

Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea, 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee. 

For  the  moon  never  beams,  without  bringing  me  dreams 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee; 
And  the  stars  never  rise,  but  I  feel  the  bright  eyes 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee; 
And  so,  all  the  night-tide,  I  lie  down  by  the  side 
Of  my  darling  —  my  darling  —  my  life  and  my  bride, 

In  the  sepulchre  there  by  the  sea, 
ti^      In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea. 

')  Virginia,  or  "the  Old  Dominion,"  originally  colonized  under 
the  auspices  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  is  here  poetically  called  "a  king- 
dom by  the  sea." 


—    239    — 

Notwithstanding  his  infirmities,  Poe  had  many 
warm  and  staunch  friends,  among  whom  were  Mr.  N. 
P.  Willis  (author  of  Pencillings  by  the  Way)  ^  and  the 
poetess,  Mrs.  Frances  Osgood.  This  lad}^  said  of  him. 
in  a  letter  to  a  friend,  "I  can  sincerely  say,  that  al- 
though I  have  frequently  heard  of  aberrations  on  his 
part  from  'the  straight  and  narrow  path,'  I  have  never 
seen  him  otherwise  than  gentle,  generous,  well-bred, 
and  fastidiously  reiined.  To  a  sensitive  and  delicately 
nurtured  woman,  there  was  a  peculiar  and  irresistible 
charm  in  the  chivalric,  gi'aceful,  and  almost  tender 
reverence  with  which  he  invariably  approached  all 
women  who  won  his  respect.  It  was  this  which  first 
commanded  and  afterwards  retained  my  regard  for  him." 


H.  R.  Dana. 


Henry  Richard  Dana  (1787  — 1879),  born  at  Cam- 
bridge, Massachusetts,  is  the  author  of  the  Buccaneer 
and  other  poems.  The  hero  of  the  Buccaneer  is  a 
certain  Matthew  Lee,  whose  evil  conscience  continually 
conjures  up  before  his  mental  vision  the  phantoms  of 
the  victims  of  his  avarice  and  cruelty.  In  all  proba- 
bility the  poem  was  suggested  by  Coleridge's  Ancient 
Mariner,  to  which  it  has  many  points  of  resemblance. 
At  the  end  of  the  poem  the  pirate  is  carried  away  b}' 
a  spectre  horse,  which  he  feels  himself  mysteriously 
impelled  to  bestride,  and  from  whose  nostrils  "streams 
a  deathly  light,"  which 

—  lights  the  sea  around  their  track  — 

The  curling  comb  and  dark  steel  wave; 

There  yet  sits  Lee  the  spectre's  back  — 

Gone!  gone!  and  none  to  save! 

They're  seen  no  more;  the  night  has  shut  them  in; 

May  Heaven  have  pity  on  thee,  man  of  sin! 

As  a  more  pleasing  specimen  of  Mr.  Dana's  poetical 
style,  we  shall  quote  his  verses  on 


—     240    — 

THE  POWER  OF  THE  SOUL.      ' 

Life  in  itself,  it  life  to  all  things  gives; 

For  whatsoe'er  it  looks  on,  that  thing  lives. 

Becomes  an  acting  being,  ill  or  good; 

And,  grateful  to  its  giver,  tenders  food 

For  the  Soul's  health,  or  suffering  change  unblest, 

Pours  poison  down  to  rankle  in  the  breast. 

As  is  the  man,  e'en  so  it  bears  its  part 

And  answers,  thought  to  thought,  and  heart  to  heart. 

Yes,  man  reduplicates  himself.    You  see 
In  yonder  lake,  reflected  rock  and  tree. 
Each  leaf  at  rest,  or  quivering  in  the  air, 
Now  rests,  now  stirs,  as  if  a  breeze  were  there, 
Sweeping  the  crystal  depths.    How  perfect  all! 
And  see  those  slender  top -boughs  rise  and  fall; 
The  double  strips  of  silvery  sand  unite 
Above,  below,  each  grain  distinct  and  bright. 

—  Thou  bird,  that  seek'st  thy  food  upon  that  bougli, 
Peck  not  alone;  that  bird  below,  as  thou, 

Is  busy  after  food,  and  happy  too; 

—  They're  gone!  Both,  pleased,  away  together  fleAv. 

And  see  we  thus  sent  up,  rock,  sand,  and  wood, 
Life,  joy,  and  motion,  from  the  sleepy  flood? 
The  world,  0  man,  is  like  that  flood  to  thee: 
Turn  where  thou  wilt,  thyself  in  all  tilings  see 
Reflected  back.    As  drives  the  blinding  sand 
Round  Egypt's  piles,  where'er  thou  tak'st  thy  stand. 
If  that  thy  heart  be  barren,  there  will  sweep 
The  drifting  waste,  like  waves  along  the  deep, 
Fill  up  the  vale,  and  choke  the  laughing  streams 
That  run  by  grass  and  brake,  with  dancing  beams. 
Sear  the  fresh  woods,  and  from  thy  heavy  eye 
Veil  the  wide-shifting  glories  of  the  sky. 
And  one  still,  sightless  level  make  the  earth, 
Like  thy  dull  lonely,  joyless  Soul,  —  a  dearth. 

The  rill  is  tuneless  to  his  ear,  who  feels 

No  harmony  within;  the  south  wind  steals. 

As  silent  as  unseen,  amongst  the  leaves. 

Who  has  no  inward  beauty,  none  perceives. 

Though  all  around  is  beautiful.     Nay,  more,  — 

In  nature's  calmest  hour  he  hears  the  roar 

Of  winds  and  flinging  waves,  —  puts  out  the  liglit. 

When  high  and  angry  passions  meet  in  flight, 

And,  his  own  spirit  into  tumult  hurled, 

He  makes  a  turmoil  of  a  quiet  world: 


—    241     — 

The  fiends  of  his  own  bosom  people  air 
With  kindred  fiends,  that  hunt  him  to  despair. 
Hates  he  his  fellow-men?  Why,  then  he  deems 
'Tis  hate  for  hate.  —  As  he,  so  each  one  seems. 

Soul!  fearful  is  thy  power,  which  thus  transforms 
All  things  into  its  likeness:  heaves  in  storms 
The  strong,  proud  sea,  or  lays  it  down  to  rest, 
Like  the  hushed  infant  on  its  mother's  breast,  — 
Which  gives  each  outward  circumstance  its  hue, 
And  shapes  all  others'  acts  and  thoughts  anew, 
That  so,  they  joy,  or  love,  or  hate  impart. 
As  joy,  love,  hate,  holds  rale  within  the  heart. 


0.  W.  Holmes. 


Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  was  born  at  Cambridge, 
Massachusetts,  in  1809.  After  studying  first  law  and 
then  medicine  at  Harvard  University,  he  visited  Europe 
in  1833.  In  1840  he  obtained  the  chair  of  anatomy 
and  physiology  in  Cambridge.  "His  fancy  teems,"  says 
the  North-American  Review j  "with  bright  and  appropriate 
images,  and  these  are  woven  into  his  plan  usually  witli 
exquisite  finish  and  grace.  His  artistic  merits  are  very 
great;  his  versification  is  never  slovenly,  nor  his  diction 
meagre  or  coarse;  and  many  of  his  shorter  pieces  are 
inwrought  with  so  much  fire  and  imagination,  as  to 
rank  among  our  best  lyrics."  Between  1843  and  1850 
Mr.  Holmes  published  three  poems,  respectively  entitled 
Terpsichore,  Urania,  and  Astraea,  the  Balance  of  Allu- 
sions; and  in  1858  he  produced  a  series  of  agreeable 
and  humorous  essays,  with  the  title,  the  Autocrat  of  the 
Breakfast  Table.  Of  his  more  serious  style  of  poetry 
we  give  two  samples,  the  first  of  which  was  written 
at  a  time  when  it  was  proposed  to  break  up  and  sell 
the  materials  of  the  old  frigate  Constitution. 

OLD  IRONSIDES. 

Ay,  tear  her  tatter'd  ensign  down! 

Long  has  it  waved  on  high; 
And  many  an  eye  has  danced  to  see 

That  banner  in  the  sky; 

16 


—     242     — 

Beneath  it  rung  the  battle  shout, 
And  burst  the  cannon's  roar;  — 

The  meteor  of  the  ocean  air 
Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more! 

Her  deck,  —  once  red  with  heroes'  blood, 

Where  knelt  the  vanquished  foe, 
When  winds  were  hurrying  o'er  the  flood, 

And  waves  were  wMte  below,  — 
No  more  shall  feel  the  victor's  tread 

Or  know  the  conquer'd  knee; 
The  hai-pies  of  the  shore  shall  pluck 

The  eagle  of  the  sea! 

Oh!  better  that  her  shatter'd  hulk 

Should  sink  beneath  the  wave; 
Her  thunders  shook  the  mighty  deep, 

And  there  should  be  her  grave: 
Nail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag. 

Set  every  threadbare  sail; 
And  give  her  to  the  god  of  storms, 

The  lightning  and  the  gale! 

THE  STEAMBOAT. 

See  how  yon  flaming  herald  treads 

The  ridged  and  rolling  waves. 
As  crashing  o'er  their  crested  heads. 

She  bows  her  surly  slaves! 
With  foam  before  and  fire  behind, 

She  rends  the  clinging  sea. 
That  flies  before  the  roaring  wind. 

Beneath  her  hissing  lee. 

The  morning  spray,  like  sea-born  flowers, 

With  heap'd  and  glistening  bells. 
Falls  round  her  fast  in  ringing  showers, 

With  every  wave  that  swells; 
And,  flaming  o'er  the  midnight  deep. 

In  lurid  fringes  thrown. 
The  living  gems  of  ocean  sweep 

Along  her  flashing  zone. 

With  clashing  wheel,  and  lifted  keel, 

And  smoking  torch  on  high, 
When  winds  are  loud,  and  billows  reel 

She  thunders  foaming  by! 
A\Tien  seas  are  silent  and  serene, 

With  even  beam  she  glides. 
The  sunshine  glimmering  through  the  green 

That  skirts  her  gleaming  sides. 


—     243     — 

Now,  like  a  wild  nymph,  far  apart 

She  veils  her  shadowy  form, 
The  beating  of  her  restless  heart 

Still  sounding  through  the  storm; 
Now  answers,  like  a  worthy  dame, 

The  reddening  surges  o'er, 
With  flying  scarf  of  spargled  flame, 

The  Pharos  of  the  shore. 

To-night  yon  pilot  shall  not  sleep, 

Who  trims  his  narrow'd  sail; 
To-night  yon  frigate  scarce  shall  keep 

Her  broad  breast  to  the  gale; 
And  many  a  foresail  scoop'd  and  strain'd. 

Shall  break  from  yard  and  stay 
Before  this  smoky  wreath  has  stain'd 

The  rising  mist  of  day. 

Hark!  hark!  I  hear  yon  whistling  shroud, 

I  see  yon  quivering  mast; 
The  black  throat  of  the  hunted  cloud 

Is  panting  forth  the  blast! 
An  hour,  and  whirl'd  like  winnowing  chaff, 

The  giant  surge  shall  fling 
His  tresses  o'er  yon  pennon-staif, 

"White  as  the  sea-bird's  wing. 

Yet  rest,  ye  wanderers  of  the  deep; 

Nor  wind  nor  wave  shall  tire 
Those  fleshless  arms,  whose  pulses  leap 

With  floods  of  living  fire; 
Sleep  on  —  and  when  the  morning  light 

Streams  o'er  the  shining  bay, 
Oh,  think  of  those  for  whom  the  night 

Shall  never  wake  in  day! 


To  his  lighter  style  belong  the  verses: 

OUR  YANKEE  GIRLS. 

Let  greener  lands  and  bluer  skies, 

If  such  the  wide  world  shows, 
With  fairer  cheeks  and  brighter  eyes 

Match  us  the  star  and  rose: 
The  winds  that  lift  the  Georgian's  veil 

Or  wave  Cir cassia's  curls 
Waft  to  their  shores  the  sultan's  sail,  — 

Who  buys  our  Yankee  girls? 

16* 


—     244     — 

The  gay  grisette,  whose  fingers  touch 

Love's  thousands  chords  so  well; 
The  dark  Italian,  loving  much, 

But  more  than  one  can  tell; 
And  England's  fair-haired,  blue-eyed  dame» 

Who  binds  her  brow  with  pearls ;  — 
Ye,  who  have  seen  them,  can  they  shame 

Our  own  sweet  Yankee  girls? 

And  what  if  court  or  castle  vaunt 

Its  children  loftier  born? 
Who  heeds  the  silken  tassel's  flaunt 

Beside  the  golden  com? 
They  ask  not  for  the  dainty  toil 

Of  ribboned  knights  and  earls, 
The  daughters  of  the  virgin  soil, 

Our  free-bom  Yankee  girls! 

By  every  hill  whose  stately  pines 

Wave  their  dark  arms  above 
The  home  where  some  fair  being  shines, 

To  warm  the  wilds  with  love; 
From  barest  rock  to  bleakest  shore 

Where  farthest  sail  unfurls. 
That  stars  and  stripes  are  streaming  o'er  — 

God  bless  our  Yankee  girls! 

Of  Holmes's  humorous  poetry,  the  following  is  a 
good  specimen: 

CONTENTMENT. 

Little  I  ask;  my  wants  are  few; 

I  only  wish  a  hut  of  stone, 
(A  very  plain  brown  stone  will  do), 

That  I  may  call  my  own;  — 
And  close  at  hand  is  such  a  one, 
In  yonder  street  that  fronts  the  sun. 

Plain  food  is  quite  enough  for  me; 

Three  courses  are  as  good  as  ten; 
If  Nature  can  subsist  on  three. 

Thank  Heaven  for  three    Amen! 
I  always  thought  cold  victual  nice,  — 
My  choice  would  be  vanilla-ice. 

I  care  not  much  for  gold  or  land;  — 
Give  me  a  mortgage  here  and  there. 

Some  good  bank-stock,  some  note  of  hand,') 
Or  trifling  railroad-share,  — 


')  In  German,  Schuldschein. 


->    245    — 

I  only  ask  that  Fortune  send 

A  little  more  than  I  shall  spend. 

Honours  are  silly  toys,  I  know, 
And  titles  are  but  empty  names; 

I  would,  perhaps,  be  Plenipo  — 
But  only  near  St.  James;*) 

I'm  very  sure  I  should  not  care 

To  fill  our  Gubemator's  chair.*) 

Jewels  are  baubles;  'tis  a  sin 
To  care  for  such  unfruitful  things; 

One  good-sized  diamond  in  a  pin, 
Some,  not  so  large,  in  rings, 

A  ruby,  and  a  pearl,  or  so, 

Will  do  for  me;  I  laugh  at  show. 

My  dame  should  dress  in  cheap  attire 
(Good,   heavy  silks  are  never  dear); 

I  own  perhaps  I  might  desire 
Some  shawls  of  true  Cashmere,  — 

Some  marrowy  crapes  of  China  silk. 

Like  wrinkled  skins  on  scalded  milk. 

Wealth's  wasteful  tricks  I  will  not  learn, 
Nor  ape  the  glittering  upstart  fool; 

Shall  not  carved  tables  serve  my  turn. 
But  all  must  be  of  buhl?») 

Give  grasping  pomp  its  double  care,  — 

I  ask  but  one  recumbent  chair. 

Thus  humble  let  me  live  and  die, 
Nor  long  for  Midas'  golden  touch; 

If  Heaven  more  generous  gifts  deny, 
I  shall  not  miss  them  much,  — 

Too  grateful  for  the  blessing  lent 

Of  simple  tastes  and  mind  content! 


^)  Plenipotentiary  to  the  Court  of  St.  James  (the  English  Court) ; 
one  of  the  highest  and  best  paid  of  American  diplomatic  posts. 
*)  The  president  of  the  United  States  has  only  the  moderate  yearly 
salary  of  25,000  dollars,  though  his  expenditure  is  necessarily  large. 
')  Buhl-work ,  introduced  by  the  Frenchman,  Charles  Boule ,  who 
died  in  1732,  is  ebony  or  tortoise-shell,  ingeniously  inlaid  with 
figui'es  mostly  of  gold  or  brass. 


246 


Bayard  Taylor. 

Mr.  Bayard  Taylor  (1825  — 1878),  for  some  years 
l3efore  his  death  American  ambassador  in  Berlin,  wrote 
Poems  and  Ballads,  Poems  of  the  Orient ^  and  several 
other  works  in  both  prose  and  poetry,  but  his  principal 
glory  will  always  be  his  unequalled  translation  of 
Goethe's  Faust,  of  which  the  first  part  appeared  in  the 
autumn  of  1870,  and  the  second  part  in  the  spring  of 
1871. 

Poetical  translation  is  never  easy,  and  previous 
translators  of  Faust,  while  indulging  in  a  certain  peri- 
phrastic diffuseness,  and  allowing  themselves  conside- 
rable latitude  both  in  diction  and  metre,  found  they  had 
undertaken  a  very  serious  task.  But  Mr.  Taylor  aspired 
to  render  the  exact  meaning,  while  he  preserved  the 
form  and  rhythm  of  the  original.  "It  is  useless  to  say," 
he  remarks,  "that  the  naked  meaning  is  independent 
of  the  form ;  on  the  contrary,  the  form  contributes  es- 
sentially to  the  fulness  of  the  meaning."  Describing 
the  method  he  had  followed  in  his  translation,  he  says : 
"The  feminine  and  dactylic  rhymes,  which  have  been 
for  the  most  part  omitted  by  all  metrical  translators, 
except  Mr.  Brooks,  are  indispensable.  The  characteristic 
tone  of  many  passages  would  be  nearly  lost  without 
them.  They  give  spirit  and  grace  to  the  dialogue, 
point  to  the  aphoristic  portions  (especially  in  the  second 
part),  and  an  even-changing  music  to  the  lyrical  passages. 
The  English  language,  though  not  so  rich  as  the  German 
in  such  rhymes,  is  less  deficient  than  is  generally  sup- 
posed. The  difficulty  to  be  overcome  is  one  of  con- 
struction rather  than  of  the  vocabulary."  We  regret 
that  our  limited  space  forbids  us  to  quote  largely  from 
this  admirable  translation,  but  we  give  a  few  passages 
as  specimens,  merely  reminding  the  reader  how  difficult 
it  is  to  judge  of  such  a  work  by  fragments.  The  two 
last  stanzes  of  the  Dedication  (Sie  horen  nicht  die 
folgenden  Gesange,  etc.)  are  rendered  by  Mr.  Taylor 
as  follows: 


i 


—     247     — 

They  hear  no  longer  these  succeeding  measures, 
The  souls  to  whom  my  earlier  songs  I  sang: 
Dispersed  the  friendly  troop  with  all  its  pleasures, 
And  still,  alas,  the  echoes  first  that  rang! 
1  hring  the  imknown  multitude  my  treasures; 
Their  very  plaudits  give  my  heart  a  pang. 
And  those  beside,  whose  joy  my  song  so  flattere^l, 
If  still  they  live,  wide  through  the  world  are  scattered. 

And  grasps  me  now  a  long-unwonted  yearning 
For  that  serene  and  solemn  Spirit-land: 
My  song,  to  faint  Aeolian  murmurs  turning, 
Sways  like  a  harp-string  by  the  breezes  fanned. 
I  thrill  and  tremble;  tear  on  tear  is  burning. 
And  the  stem  heart  is  tenderly  unmanned. 
What  I  possess,  I  see  far  distant  lying, 
And  what  I  lost  grows  real  and  undying. 

We  pass  on  to  the  passage  beginning  with:  Nun 
komm'  herab,  krystallne  reine  Schale,  when  Faustus 
resolves  to  put  an  end  to  his  existence: 

And  now  come  down,  thou  cup  of  crystal  clearest! 
Fresh  from  thine  ancient  cover  thou  appearest, 
So  many  years  forgotten  to  my  thought! 
Thou  shon'st  at  old  ancestral  banquets  cheery,  — 
The  solemn  guests  thou  madest  merry, 
^Vhen  one  thy  wassail  to  the  other  brought. 
The  rich  and  skilful  figures  o'er  thee  wrought. 
The  drinker's  duty,  rhyme-wise  to  explain  them. 
Or  in  one  breath  below  the  mark  to  drain  them. 
From  many  a  night  of  youth  my  memory  caught. 
Now  to  a  neighbour  shall  I  pass  thee  never. 
Nor  on  thy  curious  art  to  test  my  wit  endeavour; 
Here  is  a  juice  whence  sleep  is  swiftly  born. 
It  fills  with  browner  flood  thy  crystal  hollow; 
I  chose,  prepared  it;  thus  I  follow,  — 
With  all  my  soul  the  final  drink  I  swallow, 
A  solemn  festal  cup,  a  greeting  to  the  morn! 

The  unversified  scene,  near  the  end  of  the  first  part, 
in  which  Faustus  bitterly  reproaches  Mephistopheles 
with  concealing  from  him  the  imprisonment  and  misery 
of  Margaret,  is  finely  translated  in  a  rhythmical  prose 
which  approaches  equally  near  the  original.  To  the 
cynical  reply  of  Mephistopheles :  Sie  ist  die  erste  nicht, 
Faustus  makes  the  indignant  rejoinder  (Hund,  abscheu- 
liches  Unthier!): 


—     248     — 

Dog!  abominable  monster!  Transform  him,  thou  Infinite  Spirit ! 
transform  the  reptile  again  into  his  dog-shape,  in  which  it  pleased 
him  often  at  night  to  scamper  on  before  me,  to  roll  himself  at  the 
feet  of  the  unsuspecting  wanderer,  and  hang  upon  his  shoulders 
when  he  fell!  Transform  him  again  into  his  favourite  likeness,  that 
he  may  crawl  upon  his  belly  in  the  dust  before  me,  —  that  I  may 
trample  him,  the  outlawed,  under  foot!  Not  the  first!  0  woe!  woe. 
which  no  human  soul  can  grasp,  that  more  than  one  being  should 
sink  into  the  depths  of  this  misery,  —  that  the  first,  in  its  writhing 
death-agony  under  the  eyes  of  the  Eternal  Forgiver,  did  not  ex- 
piate the  guilt  of  all  others !  The  misery  of  this  single  one  pierces 
to  the  very  marrow  of  my  life;  and  thou  art  calmly  grinning  at 
the  fate  of  thousands! 

We  give  Mr.  Taylor's  translation  of  the  Konig 
in  Thule: 

There  was  a  King  in  Thule, 

AVas  faithful  till  the  grave. 
To  whom  his  mistress,  dying, 

A  golden  goblet  gave. 


Nought  was  to  him  more  precious ; 

He  drained  it  at  every  bout: 
His  eyes  with  tears  ran  over 

As  oft  as  he  drank  thereout. 

When  came  his  time  of  dying. 
The  towns  in  his  lands  he  told : 

Nought  else  to  his  heir  denying 
Except  the  goblet  of  gold. 


He  sat  at  the  royal  banquet 
With  his  knights  of  high  degree; 

In  the  lofty  hall  of  his  fathers 
In  the  castle  by  the  sea. 

There  stood  the  old  carouser, 
And  drank  the  last  life-glow; 

And  hurled  the  hallowed  goblet 
Into  the  tide  below. 

He  saw  it  plunging  and  filling, 
And  sinking  deep  in  the  sea; 

Then  fell  his  eyelids  for  ever, 
And  never  more  drank  he! 

In  the  still  more  arduous  task  of  translating  the 
second  part  of  Faust,  Mr.  Taylor  has  acquitted  him- 
self with  equal  honour  and  success. 

Three  poems  in  drama-form  have  been  written  by 
Mr.  Bayard  Taylor :  the  Prophet ,  the  Masque  of  the  Gods, 
and  Prince  Deukalion;  but  they  were  never  designed 
for  representation  on  the  stage. 


W.  C.  Bryant. 

William  Cullen  Bryant  (1794  —  1879),  one  of  the 
finest  of  the  American  poets,  was  the  son  of  a  physician 
in  Cummington,  a  small  place  in  Massachusetts.  In  his 
sixteenth  year  he  entered  Williams-College,  and  in  1815 
settled  in  Great-Barrington,  as  a  solicitor.    But  he  soon 


—    249    — 

gave  up  the  uncongenial  practice  of  the  law,  went  to 
New -York,  and  made  literature  his  profession.  His 
most  successful  poems  are:  Thanatopsis  (the  View  of 
Death),  written  in  his  eighteenth  year;  the  AgeSj  a 
poem  in  wliich  he  traces  the  gradual  intellectual  deve- 
lopment of  the  human  race;  the  Forest  Hymn,  Song  of 
the  Stars,  the  Fountain,  and  the  Lapse  of  Time,  Bryant 
particularly  excels  in  painting  American  scenery;  and 
his  poetry  is  elegant,  forcible,  and  remarkably  lucid. 
Passing  over  such  of  his  verses  as  have  been  often 
re-printed,  and  are  well  known,  we  select  as  a  specimen 
his  exquisite  lines  on 

THE  ANTIQUITY  OF  FREEDOM. 

Here  are  old  trees,  tall  oaks  and  gnarled  pines, 

That  stream  with  gray-green  mosses;  here  the  ground 

Was  never  trenched  by  spade;  and  flowers  spring  up 

Unsown,  and  die  ungathered.    It  is  sweet 

To  linger  here,  among  the  flitting  birds, 

And  leaping  squirrels,  wandering  brooks,  and  winds 

That  shake  the  leaves,  and  scatter,  as  they  pass, 

A  fragTance  from  the  cedars,  thickly  set 

With  pale  blue  berries.    In  these  peaceful  shades,  — 

Peaceful,  unpruned,  immeasurably  old,  — 

My  thoughts  go  up  the  long  dim  path  of  years, 

Back  to  the  earliest  days  of  Liberty. 

0  Freedom!  thou  art  not,  as  poets  dream, 

A  fair  young  girl,  with  light  and  delicate  limbs, 

And  wavy  tresses  gushing  from  the  cap 

With  which  the  Roman  master  crowned  his  slave 

When  he  took  off  the  gyves.    A  bearded  man, 

Armed  to  the  teeth,  art  thou;  one  mailed  hand 

Grasps  the  broad  shield,  and  one  the  sword;  thy  brow. 

Glorious  in  beauty  though  it  be,  is  scarred 

With  tokens  of  old  wars;  thy  massive  limbs 

Are  long  with  struggling.    Power  at  thee  has  launched 

His  bolts,  and  with  his  lightnings  smitten  thee; 

They  could  not  quench  the  life  thou  hast  from  heaven. 

Merciless  power  has  dug  thy  dungeon  deep. 

And  his  swart  armorers,  by  a  thousand  fires. 

Have  forged  thy  chain;  yet,  while  he  deems  thee  bound, 

The  links  are  shivered,  and  the  prison  walls 

Fall  outward;  terribly  thou  springest  forth. 

As  springs  the  flame  above  a  burning  pile, 

And  shoutest  to  the  nations,  who  return 

Thy  shoutings,  while  the  pale  oppressor  flies. 


—     250    — 

Thy  birthright  was  not  given  by  human  hands: 

Thou  wert  twin-born  with  man.    In  pleasant  fields, 

While  yet  our  race  was  few,  thou  sat'st  with  him, 

To  tend  the  quiet  flock  and  watch  the  stars, 

And  teach  the  reed  to  utter  simple  airs. 

Thou  by  his  side,  amid  the  tangled  wood, 

Didst  war  upon  the  panther  and  the  wolf, 

His  only  foes;  and  thou  with  him  didst  draw 

The  earliest  furrows  on  the  mountain  side. 

Soft  with  the  deluge.     Tyranny  himself, 

Thy  enemy,  although  of  reverend  look, 

Hoary  with  many  years,  and  far  obeyed. 

Is  later  born  than  thou;  and  as  he  meets 

The  grave  defiance  of  thine  elder  eye. 

The  usurper  trembles  in  his  fastnesses. 

Oh!  not  yet 
May'st  thou  unbrace  thy  corselet,  nor  lay  by 
Thy  sword;  nor  yet,  0  Freedom!  close  thy  lids 
In  slumber;  for  thine  enemy  never  sleeps. 
And  thou  must  watch  and  combat  till  the  day 
Of  the  new  earth  and  heaven.    But  wouldst  thou  rest 
A  while  from  tumult  and  the  frauds  of  men, 
These  old  and  friendly  solitudes  invite 
Thy  visit.    They,  while  yet  the  forest-trees 
Were  young  upon  the  unviolated  earth. 
And  yet  the  moss-stains  on  the  rock  were  new, 
Beheld  thy  glorious  childhood,  and  rejoiced. 


H.  W.  Longfellow. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  (1807—1882),  the  best 
known  in  Europe  of  all  the  American  poets,  was  born 
at  Portland,  in  the  State  of  Maine.  He  studied  at 
Bowdoin  College,  in  which,  a  few  years  later,  he 
obtained  the  chair  of  modern  languages;  but  on  the 
resignation  of  Mr.  Ticknor,  in  1835,  he  accepted  the 
same  professorship  in  Harvard  College,  Cambridge.  His 
principal  poetical  works  are:  Voices  of  the  Night  (IS39), 
Ballads  and  other  Poems  (1841),  Poems  on  Slavery  (1842), 
the  Spanish  Student,  a  play  (1848),  Evangeline  (1847), 
the  Golden  Legend  (1851),  the  Song  of  Hiawatha  (1855), 
Miles  Standish  (1858),  and  Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn  (1863). 
His  numerous  translations  from  the  Spanish,  Italian, 


—    251    — 

German,  Danish,  and  other  European  languages,  are 
generally  excellent,  though  his  Dante  is  not  looked  on 
as  a  success. 

Three  of  Longfellow's  poems  have  been  dignified 
witli  the  name  of  epics:  Evangeline ,  Hiawatha,  and 
Miles  Standish.  Evangeline  is  the  story  of  the  destruction 
by  British  and  colonial  troops,  in  war-time,  of  a  village 
in  Acadia,  or  Nova  Scotia,  inhalDited  by  French  emigrants. 
The  incidents  and  characters  are  of  course  fictitious, 
and  the  original  facts  greatly  exaggerated,  to  serve 
the  purposes  of  poetry.  Much  finer  and  more  thriving 
villages  have  been  destroyed  in  many  a  European  war 
than  the  group  of  rude  log-huts  known  in  their  time 
as  Grand-Pre.  On  the  publication  of  the  poem,  it  was 
regretted,  in  England,  that  Longfellow  should  have  chosen 
the  cumbrous  hexameter  measure,  which  Southey  had 
already  attempted,  with  very  ill  success,  to  adapt  to 
English  poetry.  For  a  page  or  two,  the  hexameter 
sounds  not  amiss,  and  in  the  following  lines  it  is 
pleasing  enough: 

This  is  the  forest  primeval. 

The  murmuring  pines  and  the  hemlocks 

Bearded  with  moss,  and  in  garments  green,  indistinct  in  the  twilight, 

Stand  like  Druids  of  old,  with  voices  sad  and  prophetic 

Stand  Uke  harpers  hoar,  with  beards  that  rest  on  their  bosoms. 

Loud  from  its  rocky  caverns,  the  deep-voiced  neighbouring  ocean 

Speaks,  and  in  accents  disconsolate  answers  the  wail  of  the  forest; 

in  so  long  a  poem  as  Evangeline,  however,  this  measure 
makes  reading  a  real  labour.  The  poem  abounds  in 
beauties;  and  we  shall  rarely  find  a  sentiment  and  a 
simile  so  aptly  joined,  and  so  happily  expressed,  as  in 
the  passage  we  next  quote: 

Talk  not  of  wasted  affection,  affection  never  was  wasted; 
If  it  enrich  not  the  heart  of  another,  its  waters,  returning 
Back  to  their  springs,  like  the  rain,  shall  fill  them  full  of  refreshment ; 
That  which  the  fountain  sends  forth  returns  again  to  the  fountain. 
Patience,  accomplish  thy  labour;   accomplish  thy  work  of  affection! 
Sorrow  and  silence  are  strong,  and  patient  endurance  is  godlike. 

The  poem  concludes  with  a  picture  of  the  final 
resting-place  of  the  two  lovers  in  a  small  churchyard 
in  the  city  of  "Penn  the  apostle": 


—     252     — 

Daily  the  tides  of  life  go  ebbing  and  flowing  beside  them, 
Thousands  of  throbbing  hearts,  where  theirs  are  at  rest  for  ever, 
Thousands  of  aching  brains,  where  theirs  no  longer  are  busy. 
Thousands  of  toiling  hands,  where  theirs  have  ceased  from  their  labours, 
Thousands  of  weary  feet,  where  theirs  have  ceased  from  their  journey. 

"The  Song  of  Hiawatha'  —  says  the  author,  "this 
Indian  Edda,  if  I  may  so  call  it  —  is  founded  on  a 
tradition  prevalent  among  the  North-American  Indians 
of  a  personage  of  miraculous  birth,  who  was  sent  among 
them  to  clear  their  rivers,  forests,  and  fishing-grounds, 
and  to  teach  them  the  arts  of  peace.  The  scene  of  the 
poem  is  among  the  Ojibways,  on  the  northern  shore 
of  Lake  Superior."  Such  is  the  statement  of  the  poet 
in  his  introduction,  but  in  the  poem  itself  he  particu- 
larizes more  fully  the  sources  of  the  legend: 

Should  you  ask  me,  whence  these  stories? 

Whence  these  legends  and  traditions 

With  the  odours  of  the  forest 

With  the  dew  and  damp  of  meadows. 

With  the  curling  smoke  of  wigwams, 

With  the  rushing  of  great  rivers, 

With  their  frequent  repetitions, 

And  their  wild  reverberations. 

As  of  thunder  in  the  mountain? 

I  should  answer.    I  should  tell  you, 

"From  the  forests  and  the  prairies. 

From  the  great  lakes  of  the  Northland, 

From  the  land  of  the  Ojibways, 

From  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 

From  the  mountains,  moors,  and  fenlands. 

Where  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 

Feeds  among  the  reeds  and  rushes. 

I  repeat  them  as  I  heard  them 

From  the  lips  of  Nawadaha, 

The  musician,  the  sweet  singer. 

All  the  wild-fowl  sung  them  to  him 

In  the  moorlands  and  the  fenlands. 

In  the  melancholy  marshes; 

Chetowaik,  the  plover,  sang  them, 

Mahng,  the  loon,  the  wild-goose,  Wawa, 

The  blue  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 

And  the  grouse,  the  Mushkodasa. 

A  little  farther  on,  we  learn  that  Hiawatha  was 
the  son  of  Wenonah,   the  daughter  of  Nokomis,   who 


—    253    — 

was  daughter  of  the  moon,  and  that  his  father  was 
Mudjekeewis,  the  West- Wind,  a  very  fickle  husband, 
as  it  appears: 

Thus  was  born  my  Hiawatha, 

Thus  was  born  the  child  of  wonder; 

But  the  daughter  of  Nokomis, 

Hiawatha's  gentle  mother, 

In  her  anguish  died  deserted 

By  the  West- Wind,  false  and  faithless, 

By  the  heartless  Mudjekeewis. 

Hiawatha  was  consequently  reared  by  his  grand- 
mother, Nokomis,  whose  abode  is  thus  described  to  us : 

By  the  shores  of  Gitche  Gumee, 
By  the  shining  Big  Sea- Water, 
Stood  the  wigwam  of  Nokomis, 
Daughter  of  the  Moon,  Nokomis. 
Dark  behind  it  rose  the  forest, 
Rose  the  black  and  gloomy  pine-trees, 
Rose  the  firs  with  cones  upon  them; 
Bright  before  it  beat  the  water. 
Beat  the  clear  and  sunny  water, 
Beat  the  shining  Big  Sea- Water. 

Hiawatha  becomes  a  hunter,  a  warrior,  and  a 
traveller;  and  in  one  of  his  adventures  he  meets  with 
Minnehaha,  or  Laughing  Water,  who  awakens  new 
feelings  in  his  bosom,  and  leads  him  into  new  ponderings : 

"As  unto  the  bow  the  cord  is, 

So  unto  the  man  is  woman; 

Though  she  bends  him,  she  obeys  him, 

Though  she  draws  him,  yet  she  follows." 

Thus  the  youthful  Hiawatha 
Said  within  himself  and  pondered. 
Much  perplexed  with  various  feelings, 
Listless,  longing,  hoping,  fearing. 
Dreaming  still  of  Minnehaha, 
Of  the  lovely  Laughing  Water 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs. 

Hiawatha  marries  Minnehaha,  is  converted  to 
Christianity  by  the  "Black  Eobe"  or  missionary,  and 
at  last  sails  aw^ay  in  a  boat,  like  King  Arthur,  and  is 
heard  of  no  more : 

Westward,  westward  Hiawatha  I  Sailed  into  the  purple  vapours, 
Sailed  into  the  fiery  sunset,  |  Sailed  into  the  dusk  of  evening. 


—     254     — 

On  Hiawatha's  childhood,  his  visit  to  Mudjekeewis, 
his  fasting,  his  friends,  his  sailing,  his  fishing,  his  wooing, 
his  combat  with  the  great  magician,  Pearl-Feather,  and 
his  wedding-feast,  we  have  no  space  to  dwell.  About 
the  merits  of  the  poem  opinions  are  greatly  divided. 
While  it  is  cried  up  by  some  as  the  "great  epic  of 
America,"  it  has  been  ridiculed  and  drolly  parodied 
by  others.  It  is  said,  that  in  the  first  year  of  its 
publication  no  less  than  thirty  editions  were  sold;  but 
it  is  impossible  to  decide  whether  curiosity  or  admiration 
had  the  greater  share  in  its  commercial  success,  for  every 
one  admitted  that  it  was  a  most  remarkable  poem. 

The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish,  the  epic  of  New 
England,  as  it  has  been  called,  is  again  a  poem  in 
hexameters:  a  measure  which  in  such  a  simple  every- 
day story  seems  still  more  unsuitable  than  in  Evangeline. 
We  are  at  once  introduced  to  the  hero: 

In  the  Old  Colony  days,  in  Plymouth,  the  land  of  the  Pilgrims, 
To  and  fro  in  a  room  of  his  simple  and  primitive  dwelling 
Clad  in  doublet  and  hose,  and  hoots  of  Cordovan  leather, 
Strode,  vv^ith  a  martial  air,  Miles  Standish,  the  Puritan  captain. 

The  soldier  loves  a  maiden,  called  Priscilla,  but 
not  possessing  himself  the  gift  of  eloquence,  he  seeks, 
and  readily  obtains  the  advocacy  of  his  trusted  friend, 
John  Alden.  Still  Miles  Standish's  suit  does  not  prosper, 
and  one  day,  when  Alden  is  unusually  earnest  and  pressing, 
Priscilla,  who  has  been  compared  to  Anne  Page,  pettishly 
asks  him,  why  he  does  not  speak  for  himself.  This  question, 
or  rather  hint,  is  an  unexpected  revelation  for  Alden, 
and  the  end  of  the  matter  is,  that  he  marries  Priscilla 
himself.  Miles  Standish  is,  of  course,  at  first  highly 
incensed,  but  in  time,  some  accidental  circumstances 
aiding,  he  consents  to  forgive  and  forget.  It  is  inte- 
resting to  know  that  Miles  Standish  really  existed,  and 
that  the  poem  is  founded  on  fact. 

Longfellow's  Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn  are  written 
in  imitation  of  Chaucer's  Canterbury  Tales.  They  con- 
sist of  seven  stories  in  all;  namely:  1.  the  Landlord's 
Tale;  2.  the  Student's  Tale  (Boccaccio's  Falcon);  3. 
the  Spanish  Jew's  Tale;  4.  the  Sicilian's  Tale;  5.  the 


—     255    — 

Musician's  Tale  (the  Saga  of  King  Olaf);  6.  the  Theo- 
logian's Tale  (Torquemada) ;  7.  the  Poet's  Tale  (the 
Birds  of  Killingworth).  As  in  Chaucer,  the  story-tellers 
meet  accidentally 

Cue  Autumn  evening  in  Sudbury  town  (in  Massachusetts.) 

The  tales  are  interesting,  and  the  individuality  of  the 
different  personages  is  well  maintained. 

Of  Longfellow's  dramas,  the  Spanish  Student,  in 
three  acts,  seems  to  us  the  only  one  at  all  fitted  for 
the  stage.  The  hero  is  the  student  Victorian,  and  the 
heroine  the  gypsy  girl,  Preciosa.  The  dialogue  is  lively, 
the  situations  ingenious,  and  the  interest  well  sustained 
till  the  last  moment.  In  the  Golden  Legend  we  at  once 
recognise  an  imitation  of  Goethe's  Faust.  Prince  Henry 
corresponds  pretty  closely  to  Faust  himself;  Elise,  in 
many  if  not  in  all  respects,  resembles  Margaret,  and 
Lucifer  is  Mephistopheles.  The  piece  is  in  six  parts, 
and  the  scene  is  successively  Strasburgh,  Genoa,  Devil's 
Bridge,  and  some  other  places.  Between  the  third  and  the 
fourth  part  a  miracle  play,  the  Nativity,  is  introduced; 
and  there  is  an  epilogue,  with  the  two  recording  angels, 
the  respective  registrars  of  good  and  evil  deeds,  ascending 
to  heaven.  It  is  the  most  ambitious,  but  the  most  ob- 
scure of  all  that  Longfellow  has  written,  and  we  think 
he  acted  injudiciously  in  provoking  a  comparison  with 
Goethe.  In  the  New  England  Tragedies,  which  concern  the 
persecutions  of  the  Quakers  and  the  cruel  prosecution 
of  supposed  witches  b}^  the  Puritan  settlers  in  the  seven- 
teenth centur3^  he  is  more  at  home.  Still,  as  an  English 
critical  writer  observes,  in  none  of  these  pieces  "has 
he  been  able  to  fulfil  the  main  condition  of  dramatic 
interest;"  in  other  words,  to  create  "such  entire  indivi- 
dual personalities,  each  with  an  independent  capability 
of  existence  and  with  a  spring  of  action  in  himself,  as 
the  drama  essentially  requires." 

After  all,  it  must  be  admitted,  that  Longfellow's 
genius  shines  with  the  greatest  brilliancy  in  his  shorter 
poems  and  lyrical  pieces.  The  subjoined  selections  may,  we 
believe,  be  classed  among  the  very  finest  of  his  compositions : 


256    — 


FOOTSTEPS  OF  ANGELS. 

When  the  hours  of  Day  are  numbered, 
And  the  Voices  of  the  Night 

Wake  the  better  soul  that  slumbered, 
To  a  holy,  calm  delight; 

Ere  the  evening  lamps  are  lighted, 
And,  like  phantoms  grim  and  tall, 

Shadows  from  the  fitful  fire-light 
Dance  upon  the  parlour  wall; 

Then  the  forms  of  the  departed 

Enter  at  the  open  door; 
The  beloved,  the  true-hearted, 

Come  to  visit  me  once  more. 

He  the  young  and  strong,  who  cherished 
Noble  longings  for  the  strife 

By  the  road-side  fell  and  perished, 
Weary  with  the  march  of  life ! 

They,  the  holy  ones  and  weakly, 
Who  the  cross  of  suffering  bore. 

Folded  their  pale  hands  so  meekly. 
Spake  with  us  on  earth  no  more! 

And  with  them  the  Being  beauteous. 
Who  unto  my  youth  was  given 

More  than  all  things  else  to  love  us. 
And  is  now  a  saint  in  heaven. 

With  a  slow  and  noiseless  footstep 
Comes  that  messenger  divine. 

Takes  the  vacant  chair  beside  me, 
Lays  her  gentle  hand  on  mine. 

And  she  sits  and  gazes  on  me 
With  those  deep  and  tender  eyes. 

Like  the  stars,  so  still  and  saintlike, 
Looking  downward  from  the  skies. 

Uttered  not,  yet  comprehended. 
Is  the  spirit's  voiceless  prayer, 

Soft  rebukes,  in  blessings  ended, 
Breathing  from  her  lips  of  air. 

Oh,  though  oft  depressed  and  lonely. 
All  my  fears  are  laid  aside; 

If  I  but  remember  only 
Such  as  these  have  lived  and  died! 


257 


WRITTEN  IN  ITALY. 

Bright  star!  whose  soft  familiar  ray, 
In  colder  climes  and  gloomier  skies, 

I've  watched  so  oft  when  closing  day 
Had  tinged  the  west  with  crimson  dyes ; 

Perhaps  to-night  some  friend  I  love. 
Beyond  the  deep,  the  distant  sea, 

WiU  gaze  upon  thy  path  ahove, 
And  give  one  lingering  thought  to  me. 


THE  LADDER  OF  ST.  AUGUSTINE. 

Saint  Augustine!  well  hast  thou  said. 
That  of  our  vices  we  can  frame 

A  ladder,  if  we  will  but  tread 
Beneath  our  feet  each  deed  of  shame! 

All  common  things  —  each  day's  events. 
That  with  the  hour  begin  and  end; 

Our  pleasures  and  our  discontents 
Are  rounds  by  which  we  may  ascend. 

The  low  desire,  the  base  design. 
That  makes  another's  virtues  less; 

The  revel  of  the  giddy  wine. 
And  all  occasions  of  excess 

The  longing  for  ignoble  things. 
The  strife  for  triumph  more  than  truth, 

The  hardening  of  the  heart,  that  brings 
Irreverence  for  the  dreams  of  youth! 

All  thoughts  of  ill  —  all  evil  deeds, 
That  have  their  root  in  thoughts  of  ill, 

Whatever  hinders  or  impedes 
The  action  of  the  nobler  will! 

All  these  must  first  be  trampled  down 
Beneath  our  feet,  if  we  would  gain 

In  the  bright  field  of  fair  renown 
The  right  of  eminent  domain! 

We  have  not  wings,  we  cannot  soar 
But  we  have  feet  to  scale  and  climb 

By  slow  degrees  —  by  more  and  more  — 
The  cloudy  summits  of  our  time. 

17 


—     258     — 

The  mighty  pyramids  of  stoue 
That  wedge-like  cleave  the  desert  airs, 

When  nearer  seen,  and  better  known, 
Are  but  gigantic  flights  of  stairs. 

The  distant  mountains  that  uprear 
Their  frowning  foreheads   to  the  skies 

Are  crossed  by  pathways  that  appear 
As  we  to  higher  levels  rise. 

The  heights  by  great  men  reached  and  kept, 
Were  not  attained  by  sudden  flight; 

But  they,  while  their  companions  slept, 
Were  toiling  upward  in  the  night. 

Standing  on  what  too  long  we  bore 
With  shoulders  bent  and  downcast  eyes, 

We  may  discern,  unseen  before, 
A  path  to  higher  destinies. 

Nor  deem  the  in-evocable  past 

As  wholly  wasted,  wholly  vain. 
If  rising  on  its  wrecks  at  last, 

To  something  nobler  we  attain. 


TRUTH. 

0  holy  and  eternal  truth!    Thou  art 

An  emanation  of  the  Eternal  Mind! 
A  glorious  attribute,  —  a  noble  part 

Of  uncreated  being!  Who  can  find. 
By  diligent  searching  who  can  find  thee. 
The  Incomprehensible,  —  the  Deity! 

The  human  mind  is  a  reflection  caught 

From  thee,  a  trembling  shadow  of  thy  ray. 

Thy  glory  beams  around  us,  but  the  thought 

That  heavenward  wings  its  daring  flight  away. 

Returns  to  where  its  flight  was  first  begun 

Blinded  and  beneath  the  noonday  sun. 

The  soul  of  man,  though  sighing  after  thee. 
Hath  never  known  thee,  saving  as  it  knows 

The  stars  of  heaven,  whose  glorious  light  we  see  — 
The  sun,  whose  radiance  dazzles  as  it  glows; 

Something,  that  is  beyond  us,  and  above 

The  reach  of  human  power,  though  not  of  human  love. 


259 


Vainly  Philosophy  may  strive  to  teach 

The  secret  of  thy  being.    Its  faint  ray 

Misguides  our  steps.    Beyond  the  utmost  reach 
Of  its  untiring  wing,  the  eternal  day 

Of  truth  is  shining  on  the  longing  eye 

Distant,  —  unchanged,  —  changeless,  pure  and  high! 

And  yet  thou  hast  not  left  thyself  without 

A  revelation.    All  we  feel  and  see 
Within  us  and  around,  forbids  the  doubt, 

Yet  speaks  so  darkly  and  mysteriously 
Of  what  we  are,  and  shall  be  evermore, 
We  doubt,  and  yet  believe,  and  tremble  and  (vdore. 

THE  LIGHT  OF  STARS. 

The  night  is  come,  but  not  too  soon, 

And  sinking  silently, 
All  silently,  the  little  moon 

Drops  down  behind  the  sky. 

There  is  no  light  in  earth  or  heaven 

But  the  cold  light  of  stars; 
And  the  first  watch  of  night  is  given 

To  the  red  planet  Mars. 

Is  it  the  tender  star  of  love? 

The  star  of  love  and  dreams? 
Oh,  no!  from  that  blue  tent  above 

A  hero's  armour  gleams. 

And  earnest  thoughts  within  me  rise 

When  I  behold  afar 
Suspended  in  the  evening  skies 

The  shield  of  that  red  star. 

0  star  of  strength!  I  see  thee  stand 
And  smile  upon  my  pain; 

Thou  beckonest  with  thy  mailed  hand, 
And  I  am  strong  again. 

Within  my  breast  there  is  no  light 
But  the  cold  light  of  stars; 

1  give  the  first  watch  of  the  night 
To  the  red  planet  Mars. 

The  star  of  the  unconquered  will, 

He  rises  in  my  breast. 
Serene,  and  resolute,  and  still, 

And  calm,  and  self-possessed. 

17* 


—     260     ~ 

And  thou,  too,  whosoe'er  thou  art, 

That  readest  this  hrief  psalm, 
As  one  by  one  thy  hopes  depart. 

Be  resolute  and  calm. 

Oh,  fear  not  in  a  world  like  this, 

And  thou  shalt  know  ere  long 
Know  how  sublime  a  thing  it  is 

To  suffer  and  be  strong. 

"About  Longfellow,"  says  an  American  writer, 
"there  is  never  any  mawkish  sentimentality,  no  ver- 
sified cant,  no  drivelling,  no  diabolic  gloom.  His  bold, 
broad  brow  catches  the  sunlight  from  the  four  points 
of  heaven,  and  disperses  it,  glittering  and  fructifying 
through  the  homesteads  of  his  readers.  Longfellow  is 
the  healthiest,  the  heartiest,  and  the  most  harmonious 
of  all  the  American  poets." 


Mrs.  Osgood. 

Mrs.  Frances  Osgood  (Miss  Locke)  was  born  in 
Boston  in  the  year  1816.  In  1834  she  married  the 
painter,  Mr.  Osgood,  and  after  travelling  with  him  for 
some  years  in  Europe,  she  returned  to  America  in  1843, 
where  she  continued  to  reside  till  her  death  in  1850. 
She  has  been  called  "the  American  Hemans;"  and  it 
is  true  that  her  poems  display  much  of  the  elegance 
and  feminine  delicacy  of  the  English  poetess,  though, 
we  think,  with  less  warmth  of  feeling.  We  give  two 
specimens  of  her  poetry:  the  first  entitled,  the  Child 
playing  toith  a  Watch;  the  other,  an  ode  on  a  favourite 
horse,  called  Lady  Jane. 

THE  CHILD  PLAYING  WITH  A  WATCH. 

Art  thou  playing  with  Time  in  thy  sweet  baby-glee? 
Will  he  pause  on  his  pinions  to  frolic  with  thee? 
'    Oh,  show  him  those  shadowless,  innocent  eyes. 
That  smile  of  bewildered  and  beaming  surprise ; 
Let  him  look  on  that  cheek  where  thy  rich  hair  reposes, 
Where  dimples  are  playing  "bopeep"  with  the  roses: 


—    261     — 

His  wrinkled  brow  press  with  light  kisses  and  warm, 
And  clasp  his  rough  neck  with  thy  soft  wreathing  arm. 
Perhaps  thy  bewitching  and  infantine  sweetness 
May  win  him,  for  once,  to  delay  in  his  fleetness  — 
To  pause,  ere  he  rifle,  relentless  in  flight, 
A  blossom  so  glowing  of  bloom  and  of  light : 
Then,  then,  would  1  keep  thee,  my  beautiful  child. 
With  thy  blue  eyes  unshadowed,  thy  blush  undefiled  — 
With  thy  innocence  only  to  guard  thee  from  ill; 
In  life's  sunny  dawning,  a  lily-bud  still! 
Laugh  on,  my  own  Ellen!  that  voice,  which  to  me 
Gives  a  warning  so  solemn,  makes  music  for  thee; 
And  while  I  at  those  sounds  feel  the  idler's  annoy, 
Thou  hear'st  but  the  tick  of  the  pretty  gold  toy; 
Thou  seest  but  a  smile  on  the  brow  of  the  churl  — 
May  his  frown  never  awe  thee,  my  own  baby-girl. 
And  oh,  may  his  step,  as  he  wanders  with  thee. 
Light  and  soft  as  thine  own  little  fairy  tread  be! 
While  still  in  all  seasons,  in  storms  and  fair  weather, 
May  Time  and  my  Ellen  be  playmates  together. 

LADY  JANE. 

Oh,  saw  ye  e'er  creature  so  queenly,  so  fine, 
As  this  dainty,  aerial  darling  of  mine; 
With  a  toss  of  her  mane  that  is  glossy  as  jet, 
With  a  dance  and  a  prance,  and  a  sportive  curvet 
She  is  off  —  she  is  stepping  superbly  away, 
Her  dark,  speaking  eyes  full  of  pride  and  of  play. 
Oh!  she  spurns  the  dull  earth  with  a  graceful  disdain, 
My  fearless,  my  peerless,  my  loved  Lady  Jane. 

Her  silken  ears  lifted  when  danger  is  nigh, 
How  kindles  the  night  in  her  resolute  eye; 
How  stately  she  paces,  as  if  to  the  sound 
Of  a  proud,  martial  melody  pealing  around  — 
Now  pauses  at  once,  mid  a  light  caracole, 
To  turn  on  her  master  a  look  full  of  soul  — 
Now,  fleet,  as  a  fairy,  she  speeds  o'er  the  plain, 
My  dashing,  my  darling,  my  own  Lady  Jane. 

Give  her  rein  —  let  her  go!  like  a  shaft  from  the  bow, 
Like  a  bird  on  the  wing  she  is  glancing,  I  trow, 
Light  of  heart,  lithe  of  limb,  with  a  spirit  all  fire 
Yet  swayed  and  subdued  to  my  idlest  desire; 
Though  daring,  yet  docile  —  and  sportive,  but  true. 
Her  nature's  the  noblest  that  ever  I  knew: 
Oh!  she  scorns  the  dull  earth  in  her  joyous  disdain, 
My  beauty,  my  glory,  my  gay  Lady  Jane! 


—     262     — 

Charles  Fenno  Hoffman. 

Mr.  Hoffman  was  born  in  1806  in  the  City  of 
New  York,  and  was  admitted  to  practise  at  the  bar 
when  only  twenty -one;  but  his  natural  tastes  were 
altogether  literary,  and  he  soon  began  to  furnish  con- 
tributions to  the  magazines  and  newspapers,  using  a 
star  as  his  signature.  As  a  song-writer,  he  shares  the 
popularity  of  Morris.  Among  his  most  admired  poems 
and  songs,  we  may  instance  Moonlight  on  the  Hudson, 
Love  and  Politics^  the  Myrtle  and  the  Steely  and  the  fine 
verses  — 

WHAT  IS  SOLITUDE? 

Not  in  the  shadowy  wood, 

Not  in  the  crag-hung  glen, 
Nor  where  the  echoes  hrood 

In  caves  untrod  by  men; 
Not  by  the  bleak  sea-shore, 

Where  loitering  surges  break, 
Not  on  the  mountain  hoar, 

Not  by  the  breezeless  lake, 
Not  on  the  desert  plain, 

Where  man  hath  never  stood, 
Whether  on  isle  or  main  — 

Not  there  is  solitude! 

Birds  are  in  woodland  bowers, 

Voices  in  lonely  dells. 
Streams  to  the  listening  hours 

Talk  in  earth's  secret  cells; 
Over  the  gray-ribb'd  sand 

Breathe  the  ocean's  foaming  lips. 
Over  the  still  lake's  strand 

The  flower  toward  it  dips; 
Pluming  the  mountain's  crest 

Life  tosses  in  its  pines; 
Coursing  the  desert's  breast, 

Life  in  the  steed's  mane  shines. 

Leave  —  if  thou  wouldst  be  lonely  — 

Leave  Nature  for  the  crowd; 
Seek  there  for  one  —  one  only  — 

With  kindred  mind  endow'd! 
There  —  as  with  Nature  erst 

Closely  thou  wouldst  commune  — 
The  deep  soul-music,  nursed 

In  either  heart,  attune! 


—     263     — 

Heart-wearied,  thou  wilt  owu 
Vainly  that  phantom  woo'd, 

That  thou  at  last  hast  known 
What  is  true  solitude! 


Elizabeth  F.  EUet. 

This  lady,  whose  maiden  name  was  Lummis, 
married  at  the  age  of  seventeen  Dr.  W.  H.  Ellet,  Pro- 
lessor  of  Chemistry  in  Columbia  College.  In  1833  she 
published  a  translation  of  Silvio  Pellico's  Eufemia  di 
Messina,  which  was  followed  in  1835  by  a  tragedy  of 
her  own,  Teresa  Contarini,  founded  on  Nicolini's  Antonio 
Foscarini.  Among  her  shorter  poems  few  or  none  are 
sweeter  or  more  touching  than  — 

THE  BURIAL. 

We  laid  her  in  the  hallowed  place 

Beside  the  solemn  deep, 
Where  the  old  woods  hy  Greenwood's  shore 

Keep  watch  o'er  those  who  sleep: 

We  laid  her  there  —  the  young  and  fair, 

The  guileless,  cherished  one  — 
As  if  a  part  of  life  itself 

With  her  we  loved  were  gone. 

Like  to  the  flowers  she  lived  and  bloomed. 

As  bright,  as  pure  as  they; 
And  like  a  flower  the  blight  had  touched, 

She  early  passed  away. 

Oh,  none  might  know  her  but  to  love, 

Nor  name  her  but  to  praise. 
Who  only  love  for  others  knew 

Through  life's  brief  vernal  days. 

Mrs.  EUet's  principal  prose  works  are:  the  Characters 
of  Schiller  (1841),  and  Women  of  the  American  Revolution 

(1848). 


—     264     — 

Anne  Charlotte  Lynch. 

Miss  Ljrnch  belongs  to  an  Irish  family,  her  father 
having  been  a  United  Irishman,  who  emigrated  to 
America  after  the  failure  of  the  Irish  Rebellion  in 
1798.  In  1841  she  published  in  her  native  place,  Pro- 
vidence, the  Rhode-Island  Booky  a  selection  from  Rhode- 
Island  writers,  including  several  poems  by  herself. 
Since  that  time  she  has  given  to  the  world  sonnets 
and  short  poems,  distinguished  by  their  graceful  style 
and  easy  flow.  One  of  the  most  striking  of  these  bears 
the  title: 

THOUGHTS  IN  A  LIBRARY. 

Speak  low  —  tread  softly  through  these  halls; 

Here  Genius  lives  enshrined; 
Here  reign,  in  silent  majesty, 

The  monarchs  of  the  mind. 

A  mighty  spirit-host  they  come, 

From  every  age  and  clime; 
Ahove  the  buried  wrecks  of  years. 

They  breast  the  tide  of  Time. 

And  in  their  presence-chamber  here 

They  hold  their  regal  state. 
And  round  them  throng  a  noble  train, 

The  gifted  and  the  great. 

Oh,  child  of  Earth!  when  round  thy  path 

The  storms  of  life  arise. 
And  when  thy  brothers  pass  thee  by 

With  stem,  unloving  eyes  — 

Here  shall  the  poets  chant  for  thee 

Their  sweetest,  loftiest  lays; 
And  prophets  wait  to  guide  thy  steps 

In  wisdom's  pleasant  ways. 

Come,  with  these  God-anointed  kings 

Be  thou  companion  here; 
And  in  the  mighty  realm  of  mind 

Thou  shalt  go  forth  a  peer. 


—    265    — 

J.  G.  Percival. 

James  Gates  Percival  was  born  in  1795  at  a  small 
place,  called  Berlin,  in  Connecticut.  He  has  written 
Prometheus,  the  Prevalence  of  Poetry,  Consumption, 
Morning  among  the  Hills,  and  other  poems,  besides  a 
tragedy  called  Zamor.    Of  poetry  be  elegantly  says: 

The  world  is  full  of  poetry  —  the  air 

Is  living  with  its  spirit;  and  the  waves 

Dance  to  the  music  of  its  melodies, 

And  sparkle  in  its  brightness.    Earth  is  veiled 

And  mantled  with  its  beauty;  and  the  walls 

That  close  the  universe  with  crystal  in 

Are  eloquent  with  voices  that  proclaim 

The  unseen  glories  of  immensity 

In  harmonies  too  perfect  and  too  high 

For  aught  but  beings  of  celestial  mould, 

And  speak  to  man  in  one  eternal  hymn 

Unfading  beauty  and  unyielding  power. 

Mr.  Percival  died  in  1857. 


George  Morris. 

General  Morris  (born,  according  to  Griswold,  in 
New  York,  in  the  year  1800)  is  hardly  less  popular, 
as  a  song -writer,  in  England  than  in  America.  In 
1823  he  founded  the  New  York  Mirror,  in  conjunction 
with  Mr.  Samuel  Woodworth.  Among  his  numerous 
poetical  effusions  we  select  one,  which  is  as  yet  but 
little  known  in  Europe: 

WOMAN. 

Ah,  woman!  —  in  this  world  of  ours. 

What  boon  can  be  compared  to  thee? 
How  slow  would  drag  life's  weary  hours 
Though  man's  proud  brow  were  bound  with  flowers, 

And  his  the  wealth  of  land  and  sea, 
If  destined  to  exist  alone 
And  ne'er  call  woman's  heart  is  own! 


—     266     — 

My  mother!  at  that  holy  name 

Within  my  bosom  there's  a  gush 
Of  feeling  which  no  time  can  tame, 
A  feeling  which  for  years  of  fame 

I  would  not,  could  not  crush! 
And  sisters!  ye  are  dear  as  life 
But  when  I  look  upon  my  wife 

My  heart-blood  gives  a  sudden  msh, 
And  all  my  fond  affections  blend 
In  mother,  sisters,  wife  and  friend! 

Yes,  woman's  love  is  free  from  guile, 

Ajid  pure  as  bright  Aurora's  ray. 
The  heart  will  melt  before  her  smile, 

And  base-bom  passions  fade  away! 
Were  I  the  monarch  of  the  earth, 

Or  master  of  the  swelling  sea, 
I  would  not  estimate  their  worth, 

Dear  woman,  half  the  price  of  thee. 


Emily  Judson. 

Mrs.  Judson  is  still  better  known  under  her  noni 
de  plume  of  Fanny  Forester.  In  1846  she  married  the 
missionary,  Mr.  Judson,  and  accompanied  him  to  Bur- 
mah.  Two  years  before  her  marriage  she  published 
a  poem  in  four  cantos,  called  Astaroga,  or  the  Maid  of 
the  Rock.  As  a  specimen  of  her  poetical  style  we  sub- 
join her  verses,  My  Bird,  on  the  birth  of  a  child  in 
Jan.  1848,  at  Maulmain,  in  India: 

Ere  last  year's  moon  had  left  the  sky, 

A  birdling  sought  my  Indian  nest, 
And  folded,  oh!  so  lovingly. 

Its  tiny  wings  upon  my  breast. 

From  morn  till  evening's  purple  tinge, 

In  winsome  helplessness  she  lies; 
Two  rose-leaves,  with  a  silken  fringe, 

Shut  softly  on  her  starry  eyes. 

There's  not  in  Ind  a  lovelier  bird; 

Broad  earth  owns  not  a  happier  nest; 
0  God,  thou  hast  a  fountain  stirred, 

Whose  waters  never  more  shall  rest! 


267     - 


This  beautiful,  mysterious  thing, 
This  seeming  visitant  from  Heaven, 

This  bird  v^^ith  the  immortal  wing 
To  me  —  to  me,  thy  hand  has  given. 

The  pulse  first  caught  its  tiny  stroke. 
The  blood  its  crimson  hue,  from  mine 

This  life,  which  I  have  dared  invoke, 
Henceforth  is  parallel  with  thine! 

A  silent  awe  is  in  my  room  — 
I  tremble  with  delicious  fear; 

The  future,  with  its  light  and  gloom. 
Time  and  eternity  are  here. 

Doubts,  hopes,  in  eager  tumults  rise; 

Hear,  0  my  God!  one  earnest  prayer: 
Room  for  my  bird  in  paradise. 

And  give  her  angel-plumage  there! 


Charles  Sprague. 

Mr.  Sprague  has  been  called  "the  American  Pope," 
and  in  fact,  both  in  his  odes  and  his  satires  we  may 
find  much  to  remind  us  of  the  poet  of  Twickenham. 
He  was  born  at  Boston  in  1791,  and  was  for  several 
years  cashier  in  the  Globe  Bank  in  that  city.  The 
pungent  satirist  is  a  man  of  warm  affections,  so  strongly 
attached  to  his  family  and .  his  friends ,  that  he  has 
seldom  been  able  to  leave  them  for  even  a  brief  ab- 
sence. Besides  his  fine  Ode  on  Shakespeare^  his  minor 
poems,  the  Brothers,  I  see  thee  stilly  the  Family  Meeting, 
and  other  poems  and  odes,  he  has  written  a  satire, 
entitled  Curiosity,  in  which  he  more  especially  lashes 
that  pedantic  school  of  critics,  who,  blind  to  the  beauties 
of  an  author,  are  constantly  hunting  for  obscure  and 
insignificant  allusions  to  annotate  and  explain.  On  this 
subject  he  writes: 

How  swells  my  theme!  how  vain  my  power  I  find, 
To  track  the  windings  of  the  curious  mind; 
Let  aught  be  hid,  though  useless,  nothing  boots, 
Straightway  it  must  be  plucked  up  by  the  roots. 
How  oft  we  lay  the  volume  down  to  ask 
Of  him,  the  victim  in  the  Iron  Mask; 


—     268     — 

The  crasted  metal  rub  with  painful  care 

To  spell  the  legend  out  —  that  is  not  there; 

With  dubious  gaze  o'er  mossgrown  tombstones  bend 

To  find  a  name  —  the  heralds  never  penned; 

Dig  through  the  lava-deluged  city's  breast, 

Learn  all  we  can,  and  wisely  guess  the  rest; 

Ancient  or  modern,  sacred  or  profane, 

All  must  be  known,  and  all  obscure  made  plain; 

If  'twas  a  pippin  tempted  Eve  to  sin; 

If  glorious  Byron  drugged  his  Muse  with  gin; 

If  Troy  e'er  stood ;  if  Shakespeare  stole  a  deer ; 

If  Israel's  missing  tribes  found  refuge  here.  *) 

We  add  one  of  his  domestic  pieces,  and  one  of 
bis  odes: 

THE  BROTHERS. 

We  are  but  two  —  the  others  sleep 

Through  death's  untroubled  night; 
We  are  but  two  —  oh,  let  us  keep 

The  link  that  binds  us  bright. 

Heart  leaps  to  heart  —  the  sacred  flood 

That  warms  us  is  the  same; 
That  good  old  man  —  his  honest  blood 

Alike  we  fondly  claim. 

We  in  one  mother's  arms  were  lock'd  — 

Long  be  her  love  repaid; 
In  that  same  cradle  we  were  rock'd, 

Round  the  same  hearth  we  play'd. 

Our  boyish  sports  were  all  the  same, 

Each  little  joy  and  woe; 
Let  manhood  keep  alive  the  flame, 

Lit  up  so  long  ago. 

We  are  but  two  —  be  that  the  band 

To  hold  us  till  we  die; 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  let  us  stand, 

Till  side  by  side  we  lie. 

ODE  ON  ART. 

When,  from  the  sacred  garden  driven 
Man  fled  before  his  Maker's  wrath, 
An  angel  left  her  place  in  heaven, 
^  And  crossed  the  wanderer's  sunless  path. 


*)  Alluding  to  a  theory,  that  the  American  Indians  are  tht 
descendants  of  the  ten  lost  tribes  of  Israel. 


—    269    — 

'Twas  Art !  sweet  Art !  new  radiance  broke 
Where  her  light  foot  flew  o'er  the  ground; 

And  thus  with  seraph  voice  she  spoke,  — 
"The  Curse  a  Blessing  shall  be  found." 

She  led  him  through  the  trackless  wild, 

Where  noontide  sunbeam  never  blazed; 
The  thistle  shrunk,  the  harvest  smiled, 

And  Nature  gladdened,  as  she  gazed. 
Earth's  thousand  tribes  of  living  things 

At  Art's  command,  to  him  are  given; 
The  village  grows,  the  city  springs, 

And  point  their  spires  of  faith  to  heaven. 

He  rends  the  oak,  —  and  bids  it  ride, 

To  guard  the  shores  its  beauty  graced; 
He  smites  the  rock,  —  upheaved  in  pride, 

See  towers  of  strength  and  domes  of  taste. 
Earth's  teeming  caves  their  wealth  reveal, 

Fire  bears  his  banner  on  the  wave, 
He  bids  the  mortal  poison  heal, 

And  leaps  triumphant  o'er  the  grave. 

He  plucks  the  pearls  that  stud  the  deep, 

Admiring  Beauty's  lap  to  fill; 
He  breaks  the  stubborn  marble's  sleep, 

And  imitates  creating  skill. 
With  thoughts  that  swell  his  glowing  soul, 

He  bids  the  ore  illume  the  page, 
And  proudly  scorning  Time's  control, 

Converses  with  an  unborn  age. 

In  fields  of  air  he  writes  his  name. 

And  treads  the  chambers  of  the  sky; 
He  reads  the  stars,  and  grasps  the  flame, 

That  quivers  round  the  Throne  on  high. 
In  war  renowned,  in  peace  sublime, 

He  moves  in  greatness  and  in  grace; 
His  power,  subduing  space  and  time, 

Links  realm  to  realm,  and  race  to  race. 


J.  G.  Whittier. 


John  Greenleaf  Whittier,  the  New-England  quaker- 
poet  and  moralist,  born  in  1807,  has  written  Mogg 
Megone,  a  story  in  verse  of  the  struggles  of  the  early 
settlers  with  hostile  Indian  tribes;  Maud  Miiller,  a  sad 
but  very  popular  poem,   and  a  vast  number  of  short 


—     270     — 

poems  and  verses  on  the  Secession  War  and  other 
public  events.  His  lines  on  the  great  fire  in  Chicago 
(Oct.  8,  1871)  are,  we  think,  among  his  best: 

Men  said  at  vespers:  "All  is  well!" 
In  one  wild  night  the  city  fell; 
Fell  shrines  of  prayer  and  marts  of  grain 
Before  the  fiery  hurricane. 

On  three  score  spires  had  sunset  shone, 
Where  ghastly  sunrise  looked  on  none, 
Men  clasped  each  other's  hands,  and  said: 
"The  City  of  the  West  is  dead!" 

Brave  hearts  who  fought,  in  slow  retreat, 
The  fiends  of  fire  from  street  to  street. 
Turned,  powerless,  to  the  blinding  glare. 
The  dumb  defiance  of  despair. 

A  sudden  impulse  thrilled  each  wire 
That  signalled  round  that  sea  of  fire; 
Swift  words  of  cheer,  warm  heart-throbs  came ; 
In  tears  of  pity  died  the  flame ! 

From  East,  from  West,  from  South  and  North, 
The  messages  of  hope  shot  forth. 
And,  underneath  the  severing  wave, 
The  world,  full-handed,  reached  to  save. 

Kise,  stricken  city!  —  from  thee  throw 
The  ashen  sackcloth  of  thy  woe; 
And  build,  as  to  Amphion's  strain, 
To  songs  of  cheer  thy  walls  again! 

How  shrivelled  in  thy  hot  distress 
The  primal  sin  of  selfishness; 
How  instant  rose,  to  take  thy  part, 
The  angel  in  the  human  heart! 

Ah!  not  in  vain  the  flames  that  tossed 
Above  thy  dreadful  holocaust. 
The  Christ  again  has  preached  through  thee 
The  Gospel  of  Humanity! 

Then  lift  once  more  thy  towers  on  high, 
And  fret  with  spires  the  western  sky, 
To  tell  that  God  is  yet  with  us, 
And  love  is  still  miraculous! 


—     271     — 

J.  R.  Lowell. 

James  Russel  Lowellj  author  of  tlie  Indian  Summer 
Reverie^  Rosalinej  and  the  Biglow  Papers^  is  often  classed 
among  the  American  humorists  and  satirists,  but  it  would 
be  doing  him  scanty  justice  to  treat  him  as  nothing 
more.  Besides  the  above-mentioned  productions  he 
published,  in  1868,  Under  the  Willows  and  other 
Poems;  in  1870  Essays  on  Dry  den,  Shakespeare,  Lessing, 
Rousseau,  etc.;  besides  an  interesting  work  on  witch- 
craft in  New-England,  two  centuries  ago.  Of  his  vigorous 
and  pregnant  style  the  following  verses  will  give  some 
idea : 

THE  RICH  MAN'S  SON  AND  THE  POOR  MAN'S 

SON. 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  lands, 
And  piles  of  brick,  and  stone,  and  gold ; 
And  he  inherits  soft,  white  hands. 
And  tender  flesh  that  fears  the  cold; 
Nor  dares  to  wear  a  garment  old. 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 
One  would  not  care  to  hold  in  fee. 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  cares ; 
The  bank  may  break,  the  factory  bum ; 
Some  breath  may  burst  his  bubble  shares. 
And  soft,  white  hands  would  hardly  earn 
A  living  that  would  suit  his  turn: 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me. 
One  would  not  care  to  hold  in  fee. 

What  does  the  poor  man's  son  inherit? 
Stout  muscles  and  a  sinewy  heart; 
A  hardy  frame,  a  hardier  spirit; 
King  of  two  hands ;  he  does  his  part. 
In  our  useful  toil  and  art: 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 
A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

What  does  the  poor  man's  son  inherit?  — 
Wishes  o'erjoyed  with  humble  things; 
A  rank  adjudged  by  toil-worn  merit; 
Content  that  from  employment  springs; 
A  heart  that  in  his  labour  sings; 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 
A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 


—     272     — 

What  does  the  poor  man's  son  inherit?  — 
A  patience  learned  by  being  poor, 
Courage,  if  sorrow  come,  to  bear  it, 
A  fellow  feeling  that  is  sure 
To  make  the  outcast  bless  his  door: 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 
A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

Oh,  rich  man's  son,  there  is  a  toil 
That  with  all  others  level  stands: 
Large  charity  doth  never  soil, 
But  only  whitens  soft,  white  hands: 
This  is  the  best  crop  fi'om  the  lands: 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 
Worth  being  rich  to  hold  in  fee. 

Oh!  poor  man's  son,  scorn  not  thy  state;  — 
There  is  worse  weariness  than  thine. 
In  merely  being  rich  and  great; 
Work  only  makes  the  soul  to  shine. 
And  makes  rest  fragrant  and  benign: 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 
Worth  being  poor  to  hold  in  fee. 

Both  heirs  to  some  six  feet  of  sod. 
Are  equal  in  the  earth  at  last; 
Both  children  of  the  same  dear  God; 
Prove  title  to  your  heirship  vast, 
By  record  of  a  well-filled  past: 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 
Well  worth  a  life  to  hold  in  fee. 

The  Biglow  Papers  consist  of  a  series  of  humorous 
pieces  in  the  American  dialect  and  in  rhyme,  directed 
against  the  Mexican  policy  of  the  then  existing  Ad- 
ministration. Mr.  Lowell  is  a  native  of  Cambridge, 
Massachusetts,  and  was  born  in  1819.  In  1879  he  was 
appointed  American  Envoy  Extraordinary  and  Minister 
Plenipotentiary  in  London.  Mrs.  Maria  Lowell  (Miss 
White)  born  at  )Vatertown,  Massachusetts,  married 
Mr.  Lowell  in  1844.  She  has  published  several  trans- 
lations, besides  some  original  poems,  among  which  the 
Morning  Glory  and  the  Maidens  Harvest  have  found 
many  admirers.    Mrs.  Lowell  died  Feb.  19,  1885. 


273 


Mrs.  Sigourney. 

Miss  Lydia  Huntley,  born  in  1791  at  Norwich, 
Connecticut,  gave  early  proofs  of  genius,  for  she  be- 
gan to  wiite  verses,  when  only  eight  years  of  age.  In 
1819  she  married  Mr.  Sigourney,  a  merchant  in  Hart- 
ford, Connecticut,  and  for  that  time  forward  devoted 
all  her  leisure  hours  to  literary  pursuits ,  in  which 
she  was  encouraged  by  her  husband.  After  producing 
several  small  works,  in  the  summer  of  1840  she  visited 
England  and  Scotland,  and  passed  the  winter  in  Paris. 
While  in  London  she  published  a  volume  of  poems, 
and  soon  after  her  return  to  America  in  1841,  the  most 
elaborate  of  her  longer  poems,  Pocahontas,  appeared  in 
New  York.  In  1842  she  gave,  under  the  title :  Pleasant 
Memories  in  Pleasant  Lands,  an  account  in  prose  and 
verse  of  her  wanderings  abroad.  This  was  succeeded 
by  Myrtis  in  1846;  and  in  1848  appeared  a  volume  of 
her  poems,  with  beautiful  illustrations.  She  died  in  1865. 

Of  Mrs.  Sigourney's  simpler  style,  the  following 
may  serve  as  a  specimen: 


THE  THRIVING  FAMILY. 

Our  father  lives  in  Washington, 

And  has  a  world  of  cares, 
But  gives  his  children  each  a  farm, 

Enough  for  them  and  theirs. 
Full  thirty  well-grown  sons  has  he, 

A  numerous  race  indeed, 
Married  and  settled  all,  you  see. 

With  hoys  and  girls  to  feed. 
So,  if  we  wisely  till  our  lands, 

We're  sure  to  earn  a  living, 
And  have  a  penny  too  to  spare 

For  spending  or  for  giving. 
A  thriving  family  are  we, 

No  lordling  need  deride  us; 
For  we  know  how  to  use  our  hands, 

And  in  our  wits  we  pride  us. 
Hail,  brothers,  hail! 

Let  nought  on  earth  divide  us. 

18 


—     274     — 

Some  of  us  dare  the  sharp  north-east, 

Some  clover-fields  are  mowing; 
And  others  tend  the  cotton-plants 

That  keep  the  looms  a-going; 
Some  huild  and  steer  the  wliitewing'd  ships, 

And  few  in  speed  can  mate  them, 
While  others  rear  the  corn  and  wheat, 

Or  grind  the  corn  to  freight  them. 
And  if  our  neighbours  o'er  the  sea 

Have  e'er  an  empty  larder, 
To  send  a  loaf  their  babes  to  cheer 

Will  work  a  little  harder. 

Hail,  brothers,  hail! 

Let  nought  on  earth  divide  us. 

Some  faults  we  have,  we  can't  deny, 

A  foible  here  and  there; 
But  other  households  have  the  same, 

And  so  we  won't  despair 
'Twill  do  no  good  to  fume  and  frown, 

And  call  hard  names,  you  see, 
And  what  a  shame  'twould  be  to  part 

So  fine  a  family! 
'Tis  but  a  waste  of  time  to  fret, 

Since  Nature  made  us  one. 
For  every  quarrel  cuts  a  thread 

That  healthful  Love  has  spun. 
Then  draw  the  cords  of  union  fast, 

Whatever  may  betide  us. 
And  closer  cling  through  every  blast. 

For  many  a  storm  has  tried  us. 
Hail,  brothers,  hail! 

Let  nought  on  earth  divide  us. 

Of  course,  the  "Family"  here  means  the  American 
people;  and  the  "full  thirty  well-grown  sons"  are  the 
38  states  of  the  American  Union. 

The  subjoined  verses  contain  much  beauty  and 
sublimity : 

NIAGARA. 

Flow  on  for  ever,  in  thy  glorious  robe 
Of  terror  and  of  beauty!  Yea,  flow  on 
Unfathomed  and  resistless!  God  hath  set 
His  rainbow  on  thy  forehead:  and  the  cloud 
Mantled  around  thy  feet.    And  he  doth  give 
Thy  voice  of  thunder,  power  to  speak  of  Him 
Eternally,  —  bidding  the  lip  of  man 
Keep  silence,  and  upon  thy  rocky  altar  pour 
Incense  of  awe-struck  praise. 


—     275     — 

Ah!  who  can  dare 
To  lift  the  insect  trnmp  of  earthly  hope, 
Or  love  or  sorrow,  'mid  the  peal  sublime 
Of  thy  tremendous  hymn?   Even  Ocean  shrinks 
Back  from  thy  brotherhood;   and  all  his  waves 
Ketire  abashed.    For  he  doth  sometimes  seem 
To  sleep  like  a  spent  labourer,  and  recall 
His  wearied  billows  from  their  vexing  play 
And  lull  them  to  a  cradle  calm,  but  thou 
With  everlasting-,  undecaying  tide. 
Dost  rest  not  night  or  day.   The  morning  stars. 
When  first  they  sang  o'er  young  creation's  birth, 
Heard  thy  deep  anthem ;  and  those  wrecking  fires 
That  wait  the  archangel's  signal  to  dissolve 
This  solid  earth,  shall  find  Jehovah's  name 
Graven  as  with  a  thousand  diamond  spears, 
On  thine  unending  vohmie. 

Every  leaf. 
That  lifts  itself  within  thy  wide  domain, 
Doth  gather  greenness  from  thy  living  spray 
Yet  tremble  at  the  baptism.    Lo!  —  yon  birds 
Do  boldly  venture  near ,   and  bathe  their  wing 
Amid  thy  mist  and  foam.     'Tis  meet  for  them 
To  touch  thy  garment's  hem,  and  lightly  stir 
The  snowy  leaflets  of  thy  vapour  wreath. 
For  they  may  sport  unharmed  amid  the  cloud, 
Or  listen  at  the  echoing  gate  of  heaven 
Without  reproof.    But,  as  for  us,  it  seems 
Scarce  lawftil,  with  our  broken  tones,  to  speak 
Familiarly  of  thee.    Methinks  to  tint 
Thy  glorious  features  with  our  pencil's  point. 
Or  woo  thee  to  the  tablet  of  a  song. 
Were  profanation. 

Thou  dost  make  the  soul 
A  wondering  witness  of  thy  majesty; 
But  as  it  presses  with  delirious  joy 
To  pierce  thy  vestibule,  dost  chain  its  step. 
And  tame  its  rapture  with  the  humbling  view 
Of  its  own  nothingness ;  bidding  it  stand 
In  the  dread  presence  of  the  Invisible, 
As  if  to  answer  to  its  God  through  thee. 

In  the  verses,  Indian  Names,  Mrs.  Sigourney  reveals 
her  sympathy  with  a  too  often  wronged  and  defamed  race: 

INDIAN  NAMES. 

Ye  say  that  all  have  passed  away, 

That  noble  race  and  brave; 
That  their  light  canoes  have  vanished 

From  off  the  crested  wave; 

18* 


—     276     — 

That,  'mid  the  forests  where  they  roamed, 
There  rings  no  hunter's  shout; 

But  their  name  is  on  your  waters  — 
Ye  may  not  wash  it  out. 

'Tis  where  Ontario's  hillow 

Like  Ocean's  surge  is  curled;  . 
Where  strong  Niagara's  thunders  wake 

The  echo  of  the  world ; 
Where  red  Missouri  bringeth 

Kich  tribute  from  the  west; 
And  Rappahannock  sweetly  sleeps 

On  green  Virginia's  breast. 

Ye  say  their  conelike  cabins, 

That  clustered  o'er  the  vale. 
Have  disappeared,  as  withered  leaves 

Before  the  autumn's  gale: 
But  their  memory  liveth  on  your  hills, 

Their  baptism  on  your  shore, 
Your  everlasting  rivers  speak 

Their  dialect  of  yore. 

Old  Massachusetts  wears  it 

Within  her  lordly  crown. 
And  broad  Ohio  bears  it 

Amid  his  young  renown; 
Connecticut  has  wreathed  it 

Where  her  quiet  foliage  waves, 
And  bold  Kentucky  breathes  it  hoarse 

Through  all  her  ancient  caves. 

Wachusett  hides  its  lingering  voice 

Within  its  rocky  heart, 
And  Alleghany  graves  its  tone 

Throughout  his  lofty  chart. 
Monadnock,  on  his  forehead  hoar. 

Doth  seal  the  sacred  trust: 
Your  mountains  build  their  monument, 

Though  ye  destroy  their  dust. 


Joaquin  Miller. 

Joaquin  Miller,  the  poet  of  the  Far  West  (born  in 
Indiana  in  1841),  has  published  Songs  of  the  Sierras, 
a  collection  of  songs  or  short  poems,  written  in  simple 
and  unpretending,  yet  often  touching  language.  One 
of  these  bears  a  title  which  tells  its  own  story: 


277 


DEAD  IN  THE  SIERRAS. 

His  footsteps  have  failed  us, 
Where  berries  are  red, 

And  madronos*)  are  rankest. 
The  hunter  is  dead! 

The  grizzly  may  pass 
By  his  half- open  door; 

May  pass  and  repass 
On  his  path,  as  of  yore : 

The  panther  may  crouch 
In  the  leaves  on  his  limb; 

May  scream  and  may  scream,  — 
It  is  nothing  to  him. 

Prone,  bearded  and  breasted, 
Like  columns  of  stone; 

And  tall  as  a  pine  — 
As  a  pine  overthrown! 

His  camp-fires  gone, 
What  else  can  be  done 

Than  let  him  sleep  on 
Till  the  light  of  the  sun? 

Ay,  tombless !  what  of  it  ? 

Marble  is  dust, 
Cold  and  repellent; 

And  iron  is  rust. 


James  Kirke  Paulding. 

Mr.  Paulding  was  born  in  1778,  at  a  place  called 
Pleasant  Valley,  in  the  State  of  New  York;  and  he 
died  in  1860.  He  has  written  a  good  deal  of  both 
prose  and  poetry ;  the  scenes  in  Kentucky,  in  his  West- 
ward Hoi  in  particular,  are  very  ably  sketched.  We 
give  an  extract  from  liis  Backwoodsman: 

DOWN  THE  OHIO. 

As  down  Ohio's  ever-ebbing  tide, 

Oarless  and  sailless  silently  they  glide. 

How  still  the  scene,  how  lifeless,  yet  how  fair, 

Was  the  lone  land  that  met  the  stranger  there! 


The  arbutus  or  strawberry-tree. 


—     278     — 

No  smiling  villages  or  curling  smoke 

The  busy  haunts  of  busy  men  bespoke; 

No  solitary  hut,  the  banks  along. 

Sent  forth  blithe  labour's  homely,  rustic  song; 

No  urchin  gamboll'd  on  the  smooth,  white  sand. 

Or  hurl'd  the  skipping  stone  with  playful  hand, 

While  playmate   dog  plung'd  in  the  clear  blue  wave, 

And  swam,  in  vain,  the  sinking  prize  to  save. 

Where  now  are  seen,  along  the  river  side 

Young,  busy  towns  in  buxDm,  painted  pride, 

And  fleets  of  gliding  boats,  with  riches  crown'd. 

To  distant  Orleans  or  St.  Louis  bound. 

Nothing  appeared  but  nature  unsubdued. 

One  endless,  voiceless,  woodland  solitude. 

Or  boundless  prairie,  that  aye  seem'd  to  be 

As  level  and  as  lifeless  as  the  sea; 

They  seem'd  to  breathe  in  this  wide  world  alone. 

Heirs  of  the  earth  —  the  land  was  all  their  own! 

Mr.    Paulding   was    one    of  the    contributors    to 
Washington   Irving's  humorous   periodical  Salmagundi. 


H.  T.  Tuckerman. 

The  accomplished  scholar  and  critic,  Henry  Theodore 
Tuckerman^  has  written  some  poetry  of  a  pleasing  and 
graceful,  if  not  of  a  very  vigorous  character.  He  was 
born  in  the  city  of  Boston  in  1813,  and  after  completing 
his  collegiate  studies,  travelled  for  some  years  in  Europe, 
whence  he  returned  to  America  in  1838.  From  this 
time  he  was  constantly  occupied  with  literary  labours 
till  his  death  in  1871.  Among  his  poetical  effusions 
the  most  popular  are  Mary,  the  Ringlet,  and  the  verses : 

GIVE  ME  THE  BOON  OF  LOVE. 

Give  me  the  boon  of  Love ! 

I  ask  no  more  for  fame; 
For  better  one  unpurchased  heart 

Than  Glory's  proudest  name. 
Why  wake  a  fever  in  the  blood, 

Or  damp  the  spirit  now, 
To  gain  a  wreath  whose  leaves  shall  wave 

Above  a  withered  brow? 


—     279     — 

Give  me  the  boon  of  Love! 

Ambition's  meed  is  vain; 
Dearer  Affection's  earnest  smile 

Tlian  Honour's  richest  train. 
I'd  rather  lean  npon  a  breast 

Responsive  to  my  own, 
Than  sit,  pavilioned  gorgeously, 

Upon  a  kingly  throne. 

Like  the  Chaldean  sage, 

Fame's  worshippers  adore 
The  brilliant  orbs  that  scatter  light 

O'er  lieaven's  azure  floor; 
But  in  their  very  hearts  enshrined, 

The  votaries  of  Love 
Keep  e'er  the  holy  flame  which  once 

Illumed  the  courts  above. 

Give  me  the  boon  of  Love! 

Renown  is  but  a  breath 
Whose  loudest  echo  ever  floats 

From  out  the  halls  of  death. 
A  loving  eye  beguiles  me  more 

Than  Fame's  emblazoned  seal, 
And  one  sweet  tone  of  tenderness 

Than  Triumph's  wildest  peal. 

Give  me  the  boon  of  Love ! 

The  path  of  Fame  is  drear. 
And  Glory's  arch  doth  ever  span 

A  hill-side  cold  and  sere. 
One  wild  flower  from  the  path  of  Love, 

All  lowly  though  it  lie, 
Is  dearer  than  the  wreath  that  waves 

To  stern  Ambition's  eye. 

Give  me  the  boon  of  Love! 

The  lamp  of  Fame  shines  far, 
But  Love's  soft  light  glows  near  and  warm, 

A  pure  and  household  star. 
One  tender  glance  can  fill  the  soul 

With  a  perennial  fire; 
But  Glory's  flame  burns  fitfully, 

A  lone,  funereal  pyre. 

Give  me  the  boon  of  Love! 

Fame's  trumpet-strains  depart, 
But  Love's  sweet  lute  breathes  melody 

That  lingers  in  the  heart; 


—     280     — 

And  the  scroll  of  fame  will  burn, 

When  sea  and  earth  consume; 
But  the  rose  of  Love,  in  a  happier  sphere, 

Will  live  in  deathless  bloom! 

On  the  death  of  the  young  and  promising  poetess, 
Miss  Lucy  Hooper,  in  1841,  at  the  age  of  twenty-four, 
Tuckerman  paid  the  following  tribute  to  her  memory: 

And  thou  art  gone!  sweet  daughter  of  the  lyre, 

Whose  strains  we  hoped  to  hear  thee  waken  long; 
Gone  —  as  the  stars  in  morning's  light  expire, 

Gone  like  the  rapture  of  a  passing  song; 
Gone  from  a  circle  who  thy  gifts  have  cherished 

With  genial  fondness  and  devoted  care, 
Whose  dearest  hopes  with  thee  have  sadly  perished, 

And  now  can  find  no  solace  but  in  prayer; 
Prayer  to  be  like  thee  in  so  meekly  bearing 

Both  joy  and  sorrow  from  thy  Maker's  hand; 
Prayer  to  put  on  the  white  robes  thou  art  wearing, 

And  join  thy  anthem  in  the  better  land. 


Mrs.  Welby. 

Mrs.  Amelia  B.  Welby  (Miss  Coppuck)  was  born 
in  1821  at  St.  Michael's,  Maryland,  and  was  married, 
in  1838,  to  Mr.  B.  Welby  of  Louisville,  Kentucky.  Her 
first  poems  appeared  in  1844.  Of  all  she  has  written 
we  give  a  decided  preference  to  her  exquisite  lines: 

TO  A  SEA-SHELL. 

Shell  of  the  bright  sea-waves ! 
What  is  it  that  we  hear  in  thy  sad  moan! 
Is  this  unceasing  music  all  thine  own? 

Lute  of  the  ocean-caves! 

Or  does  some  spirit  dwell 
In  the  deep  windings  of  thy  chambers  dim, 
Breathing  for  ever  in  its  mournful  hymn, 

Of  ocean's  anthem-swell? 

Wert  thou  a  murmurer  long 
In  crystal  palaces  beneath  the  seas, 
Ere  from  the  blue  sky  thou  hadst  heard  the  breeze 

Pour  its  full  tide  of  song? 


—    281     — 

Another  thing  with  thee: 
Are  there  not  gorgeous  cities  in  the  deep, 
Buried  with  flashing  gems  that  brightly  sleep, 

Hid  by  the  mighty  sea? 

And  say,  0  lone  sea-shell! 
Are  there  not  costly  things  and  sweet  perfumes 
Scattered  in  waste  o'er  that  sea-gulf  of  tombs? 

Hush  thy  low  moan  and  tell. 

But  yet,  and  more  than  all  — 
Has  not  each  foaming  wave  in  fury  tossed 
O'er  earth  most  beautiful,  the  brave,  the  lost, 

Like  a  dark  funeral  pall? 

'Tis  vain  —  thou  answerest  not! 
Thou  hast  no  voice  to  whisper  of  the  dead; 
'Tis  ours  alone,  with  sighs  like  odours  shed. 

To  hold  them  unforgot! 

Tliine  is  as  sad  a  strain 
As  if  the  spirit  in  thy  hidden  cell 
Pined  to  be  with  the  many  things  that  dwell 

In  the  wild,  restless  main. 

And  yet  there  is  no  sound 
Upon  the  waters,  whispered  by  the  waves, 
But  seemeth  like  a  wail  from  many  graves. 

Thrilling  the  air  around. 

The  earth,  0  moaning  shell! 
The  earth  hath  melodies  more  sweet  than  these  - 
The  music-gush  of  rills,  the  hum  of  bees 

Heard  in  each  blossom's  bell. 

Are  not  these  tones  of  earth. 
The  rustling  forest,  with  its  shivering  leaves, 
Sweeter  than  sounds  that  e'en  in  moonlight  eves 

Upon  the  seas  have  birth! 

Alas!  thou  stUl  wilt  moan  — 
Thou'rt  like  the  heart  that  wastes  itself  in  sighs, 
E'en  when  amid  bewildering  melodies, 

If  parted  from  its  own. 


—     282 


Mrs.  E.  0.  Smith. 

Mrs.  Elizabeth  Oakes-Smith  (Miss  Prince),  born  near 
Portland,  Maine,  married  at  the  ago  of  sixteen  the  poet 
and  humorist,  Mr.  Seba  Smith  (Jack  Downing).  Her 
most  popular  poems  are,  the  Acorn,  the  Sinless  Child, 
the  April  Rain,  the  Water,  and  the  Brook.  Her  finest 
lines  are  perhaps  those  on  flowers  in  the  Sinless  Child: 

Each  tiny  leaf  became  a  scroll 

Inscribed  with  holy  truth, 
A  lesson  that  around  the  heart 

Should  keep  the  dew  of  youth; 
Bright  missals  from  angelic  throngs 

In  every  by-way  left  — 
How  were  the  earth  of  glory  shorn, 

Were  it  of  flowers  bereft! 

They  tremble  on  the  alpine  height; 

The  fissured  rock  they  press; 
The  desert  wild,  with  heat  and  sand, 

Shares,  too,  their  blessedness. 
And  wheresoever  the  weary  heart 

Turns  in  its  dim  despair, 
The  meek-eyed  blossom  upward  looks, 

Inviting  it  to  prayer. 

Mrs.  E.  0.  Smith  has  produced  two  dramas:  the 
Roman  Tribute j  the  subject  of  which  is  the  ransom  of 
Constantinople,  by  a  tribute  paid  to  Attila  by  the 
Emperor  Theodosius;  the  other,  Jacob  Leisler,  a  tragedy 
founded  on  an  episode  in  American  history  about  two 
centuries  ago.  The  last-mentioned  piece  contains  some 
powerful  though  painful  scenes,  particularly  that  in 
which  the  heroine,  Elizabeth  Howard,  who  had  fled 
from  a  cruel  and  worthless  husband  in  England,  and 
then  married  Leisler,  the  New -York  Masaniello,  is 
obliged  to  confess  her  bigamy  to  her  second  husband; 
and  again,  when  after  the  collapse  of  Leisler's  revolution, 
she  intreats  her  first  husband,  now  a  man  of  authority 
in  America,  to  spare  Leisler's  life. 


—     283     — 

Mrs.  Lewis. 

Mrs.  Estella  Anna  Lewis  (Miss  Robinson)  is  a  native 
of  Baltimore.  In  1846  she  published  a  volume  of  poems, 
witli  the  title,  Records  of  the  Heart,  some  of  which  are 
of  considerable  length.  In  1848  appeared  the  Child  of 
the  /Sea,  in  which,  among  other  fine  passages,  we  find 
the  following  description  of  the  Bay  of  Gibraltar: 

Fresh  blows  the  breeze  o'er  Tarick's  burnished  bay, 
The  silent  sea-mews  bend  them  through  the  spray; 
The  beauty-freighted  barges  bound  afar 

To  the  soft  music  of  the  gay  guitar 

The  sentry  peal  salutes  the  setting  sun, 
The  haven's  hum  and  busy  din  are  done, 
And  weary  sailors  roam  along  the  strand. 
Or  stretch  their  brawny  limbs  upon  the  sand, 
Feast,  revel,  game,  engage  in  sage  dispute. 
Unthread  the  story,  sound  the  tuneful  lute; 
Or  humming  some  rude  air  that  sths  the  heart, 
Clue  up  the  sails,  or  spread  them  to  depart. 

Mrs.  Lewis  died  in  1880. 

The  other  principal  American  poets,  verse-writers, 
and  dramatists  are:  William  Gilmore  Simms  (Atlantis, 
a  story  of  the  sea,  etc.) :  Mrs.  Mary  H.  C.  Booth  (Way- 
side Blossoms  among  Flowers  from  German  Gardens,  etc.) ; 
Miss  L.  H.  Hooper  (translations  from  Geibel  and  Heine, 
etc.):  Miss  E.  Frothingham  (translation  of  Goethe's 
Hermann  and  Dorothea);  Washington  Allston  (Sylphs  of 
the  Seasons,  etc.) ;  J.  Pierpoint  (Airs  of  Palestine,  etc.) ; 
J.  A.  Hillhouse  (dramas:  Hadad,  Percy  s  Mask,  Demetria); 

F.  Bret  Harte  (songs  and  poems  on  the  Civil  War,  the 
Heathen  Chinee;  drama:  Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar);  Charles 

G.  Leland  (translations  from  the  German;  Hans  Breit- 
manns  Ballad's,  etc.);  E.  C.  Stedman  (the  Diamond 
Wedding,  Sumter,  etc.);  Richard  H.  Stoddard  (Footprints, 
etc.);  Ch.  G.  Halpine,  (various  poems  on  the  Civil  War); 
Geo.  H.  Boker  (dramas:  Calaynos;  Anne  Boleyn;  Fran- 
cesca  da  Rimini);  Henry  Ware,  jun.  (Ursa  Major,  etc.); 
Ch.  W.  Everett  (Agriculture,  etc.);  Ed.  Everett  (Dirge 
of  Alaric,  etc.) ;  Epes  Sargent  (tragedy :  Velasco,  etc.) ; 
Mrs.   Sawyer  (the  Valley  of  Peace,   etc.);  Mrs.  A.    C. 


—     284     — 

Mowatt  (plays:  Gulzare,  the  Persian  Slave;  Fashion; 
Armandj  the  Child  of  the  People);  Sara  J.  Clarke  (Ari- 
adne,  etc.) ;  Miss  Alice  Carey  (the  Handmaid,  etc.) ;  Miss 
Phoebe  Carey  (Light  in  Darkness,  etc.) ;  the  sisters,  Mrs. 
Cather  Warfield  and  Mrs.  Eleanor  Lee  (the  Indian 
Chamber,  etc.);  Mrs.  J.  W.  Home  (Wordsworth,  etc.); 
Mrs.  Maria  Brooks  (Zophiel,  in  six  cantos).  To  these 
names  we  should  perhaps  add  that  of  Walt  Whitman 
(Leaves  of  Grass),  though  we  confess  we  feel  puzzled 
to  decide  whether  his  strange  hybrid  literary  productions 
should  be  classed  as  prose  or  poetry.  Before  we  con- 
clude, we  have  a  word  to  say  about  the  anonymous 
poets.  That  much  poetical  talent  exists  among  educated 
Americans  is  proved  by  the  appearance,  every  now  and 
again,  in  the  newspapers  or  literary  magazines,  of  verses 
possessing  great  merit,  wliich  are  read,  admired,  and  if 
not  soon  after  re -published  with  the  author's  name, 
forgotten.  To  one  of  these  anonymous  poetical  effusions, 
which  appeared  in  a  New  York  periodical,  we  should 
desire  to  give  further  publicity.  The  subject  is  that 
grand  and  comprehensive  one,  which  Alexander  Pope 
recommended  as  the  proper  study  of  mankind:" 

MAN. 

The  human  mmd,  —  that  lofty  thing! 

The  palace  and  the  throne, 
Where  reason  sits  a  sceptred  king, 

And  breathes  his  judgment  tone. 
Oh!  who  with  silent  step  shall  trace 
The  borders  of  that  haunted  place, 

Nor  in  his  weakness  own 
That  mystery  and  marvel  bind 
That  lofty  thing  —  the  human  mind! 

The  human  heart,  —  that  restless  thing! 

The  tempter  and  the  tried; 
The  joyous,  yet  the  suffering,  — 

The  source  of  pain  and  pride ; 
The  gorgeous  tlironged,  —  the  desolate. 
The  seat  of  love,  the  lair  of  late,  — 

Self-stung,  self-deified ! 
Yet  do  we  bless  thee  as  thou  art, 
Thou  restless  thing,  —  the  human  heart! 


—     285     — 

The  human  soul,  —  that  startling  thing! 

Mysterious  and  sublime! 
The  angel  sleeping  on  the  wing 

Worn  by  the  scoffs  of  time,  — 
The  beautiful,  the  veiled,  the  bound, 
The  earth-enslaved,  the  glory-crowned, 

The  stricken  in  its  prime! 
From  heaven  in  tears  to  earth  it  stole, 
That  startling  thing,  —  the  human  soul! 

And  this  is  man :  —  oh !  ask  of  him 

The  gifted  and  forgiven,  — 
While  o'er  his  vision,  drear  and  dim, 

The  wrecks  of  time  are  driven, 
If  pride  or  passion  in  their  power 
(^an  chain  the  time,  or  charm  the  hour, 

Or  stand  in  place  of  heaven? 
He  bends  the  brow,  he  bows  the  knee,  — 
"Creator,  Father!  none  but  thee!" 


VOCABULARY. 

(English  and  German.) 


A. 

Abdication,  Abdankuiig*. 
aberrations,  Verirrnngen. 
abigail,  Kammerjungfer. 
abreast,  neben  einander. 
accessories,  Nebensachen. 
achieve  (to),  voUenden,  zu  Stande 

bringen. 
acrimonious,  beissend,  bitter, 
adamantine,  demanten. 
addled,  faul,  verdorben. 
adulterous,  ehebrecherisch. 
aerial,  atlierisch. 
affect  (to),  [S.  174]  lieb  gewnnen. 
affianced,  verlobt. 
agaric,  Pilz. 
aghast,  erschrocken. 
ain't,  vulgar  fiir  isn't, 
ajar,  angelehnt. 
akin,  verwandt. 
alderman,  Stadtaltester. 
allegation,  Behauptung. 
almoner,  Almosenspender. 
amalgamation,  Mischung. 
a-maying    (to    go),    Maiblumen 

sammeln. 
amber,  Bernstein, 
ankle,  Fussknbchel. 
anon,  in  Kurzem. 
antagonist,  Widersacher. 
anthem,  Chorgesang. 
appanage,  Vorrecht. 
approve  (to),  auf  die  Probe  stellen, 

billigen. 
aptitude,  Fahigkeit,  Begabung. 


archery,  das  Bogenschiessen. 
armorer,  Waffenschmied. 
articles  of  war,  Kriegsgesetze. 
aspen,  Espe. 

assafoetida,  Teufelsdreck. 
astute,  schlau,  hinterlistig. 
athirst  (poetisch),  durstig. 
athrob  (poetisch),  zitternd. 
a-tiptoe,  auf  den  Zehenspitzen. 
atrabilious,  schwermiitig. 
attune  (to),  in  Einklang  bringen. 
auger-hole,  Bohrloch. 
aught,  etwas. 
avalanche,  Lawine. 
aver  (to),  beteuem. 
average,  Durchschnitt. 
aversion,  Abneigung. 
ax  (to),  vulgar  fur  ask. 
aye,  immer. 


Babble  (to),  schwatzen. 
bait,  Imbiss,  Lockspeise. 
ballot,  die  geheime  Abstimmung. 
balls  (golden),  Schild  des  Pfand- 

verleihers. 
bamboozle  (to),  hintergehen. 
ban,  Fluch. 

bandbox,  Putzschachtel. 
bantling,  Kindlein. 
bar,  Hinderniss,  Sandbank  an  der 

Mundung  eines  Flusses. 

(To  be  called  to  the  bar, 

Advokat  werden.) 
barge,  Barke. 


288 


bask  (to),  sich  sonnen. 
baton,  Kommandostab. 
battle-axe,  Streitaxt. 
beach,  Strand,  Ufer.    (Beached, 

vom    Strande     einge- 

schlossen.) 
bead-roll,  Rosenkranz,  Liste. 
beads,  (Glas-)  Perlen. 
beaker,  Becher. 
beam,   Lichtstrahl;    (von   einem 

Schiff,  with  even  beam, 

ganz  gleichmassig). 
bearer,  Ueberbringer. 
Beatrice    and   Benedick:    vergl. 

Shakespeare's     "Much 

Ado  about  Nothing." 
beckon  (to),  zuwinken. 
befit  (to),  anstehen, 
beguile  (to),  betriigen. 
bellow  (to),  briillen. 
bellows,  Blasebalg. 
bequeath  (to),  vermachen. 
beset,  bedrangt. 
betrothed,  verlobt. 
bewail  (to),  beweinen. 
bewilder  (to),  verwirren. 
bicker  (to),  rauschen,  zanken. 
billow,  Welle,  Woge. 
bit,  Gebiss,  Bischen. 
blacksmith,  Hufschmied. 
blade,  Klinge. 
blaspheme  (to),  verfluchen. 
blast,  Wind,  Sturm, 
blast    (to),     austrocknen,     be- 

schimpfen. 
bleak,  kalt,  unfreundlich. 
bleat  (to),  bloken. 
blemish.  Mangel,  Fleck, 
blight  (to),  verderben,  zu  Grunde 

richten. 
blink  (to),  verheimlichen. 
blues,  Blaustriimpfe. 
blunder  (to),  eineuFehler  raachen. 
blurred,  verschwommen. 
bohea,  eine  Sorte  Thee. 
Bohemian  Girl  (Oper),  die  Zigeu- 

nerin. 
bolt  (thunder-),  Donnerkeil. 
bonnie,  schon,  freundlich. 
boon,  Gunst,  Gefallen. 


boots  (nothing),  es  hilft  nichts. 
bopeep,  Versteckenspiel. 
borough,  Wahlflecken. 
bother  the  gibberish!  der  Henker 

hole  das  Kauderwalsch. 
bothie  (schottisch),   Wirthshaus. 
boundary,  Grenze. 
bounden,  verpflichtet. 
bowery,  laubreich. 
brackish,  salzig. 
brae  (schottisch),  Anhohe. 
braid,  Gewebe. 
brake,  Farrnkraut. 
brand,  Scliwert,  Fackel. 
brandy.  Cognac, 
brawl,  Zank,  Aufruhr. 
brawny,  muskulos. 
bribe  (to),  bestechen. 
bridesmaid,  Brautjungfer. 
bristles,  Borsten;  (S.  167),  Bart, 
brittle,  zerbrechlich. 
broom,  Ginster. 
brow,  Augenbraue,  Stimrunzeln, 

Eand. 
browse  (to),  weiden. 
bruise,  Wunde,  Schlag. 
Brussels     (carpet),      Brusseler 

Teppich. 
buckle,  Schnalle. 
bud,  Knospe. 
buff-coat,  Bliffelwamms. 
bugle,  Jagdhorn. 
bump  along  (to) ,   auf  holprigem 

Wege  fahren. 
bumper,  Humpen. 
buoy  up  (to),  schwimmend  erhalten. 
burden,  Biirde,  Refrain, 
burglar,  Einbrecher. 
burnished,  glanzend. 
bustling,  Gewiihl. 
buxom,  frohlich. 
by-the-by,  beilaufig  gesagt. 

c. 

Cabal    (to),    sich    gegen    etwas 

verschworen. 
callous,  abgehartet. 
cancel    (to),     vernichten,    aus- 

streichen. 


ORO 


canker  (to),  verderbeu  (bei  Rosen, 
anfressen). 

cant  (S.  260),  Heiichelei. 

canto,  Gesang. 

canvass  (to),  erortern. 

cap,  Mutze. 

carcase,  Leiche. 

carnage,  Bhitbad. 

carol,  Gesang. 

carrion,  Aas. 

casement  (poetisch),  Fenster. 

castigate  (to),  zlichtigen. 

("athay,  China. 

caw  (to),  krachzen. 

cemetery,  Gottesacker. 

cerulean,  himnielblan. 

chaff,  Spren. 

<hair,  Stuhl,  Prasidentenstuhl. 

chalet,  Sennlmtte. 

challenge ,  herausfordern ,  aus- 
wahlen. 

chart,  Seekarte. 

chaste,  reiu,  zUchtig. 

chats,  Plaudereien. 

check,  Einhalt,  karriertes  Muster. 

cheek-strap,  Backenriemen. 

cheesemonger,  Kaseliandler. 

chime,  Glockengelaut. 

chimney- sweep  question,  Frage 
betreffend  die  Ver- 
wendung  von  Kindern 
beim  Schornsteinfegen. 

chipp'd,  gesprmigen. 

chirp,  Gezwitscher. 

choir,  Kirchenchor. 

church-rates,  Kirchensteuer. 

churl,  Bauer,  Kerl. 

cider,  Apfelwein. 

cite  (to),  anfiihren. 

civet,  Zibethkatze  und  ein  aus 
einer  Driise  derselben 
bereitetes  Tarfiim. 

claim,  Anspruch. 

clamour,  Gerausch. 

clang  (to),  schallen. 

clasp,  Schloss  am  Buch. 

clod,  Erdscholle. 

clomb  (poetisch)  =  climbed. 

clot,  Kliimpchen  Blut. 

clover,  Klee. 


ciuc  up  (to),  zusammenziehen. 

coat-ol-arms,  Wappen. 

cobweb,  Spinngewebe. 

coil  around  (to),  umschlingen. 

coin,  Miinze. 

collaboration ,    Mitwirkung ,    ge- 

meinschaftliclio  Arbeit, 
collation,  Erfrischung. 
colloquy,  Gesprach. 
colourings,  Bemantelung. 
comb,  Kanim,  Wellenriicken. 
comfits  and  cates,    Kontekt  und 

Leckerbissen. 
commiseration,  Mitleid. 
commune   (to),    verkehren,    sich 

beraten. 
competition,   Konkurrenz,  Wett- 

eifer, 
concede  (to),  zugeben. 
confederate,  verbiindet. 
confound!  verwiinscht  sei  — 
connoisseur,  Kenner. 
consort    with    (to),    verkehren 

mit. 
constituency,  Wahlerschaft. 
consummate,  vollkommen. 
contrast  (to),  entgegeustellen. 
contumacy,  Hartnackigkeit. 
convalescent,  genesend. 
co-operation,  Mitwirkung. 
coot,  Wasserhuhn. 
cope,  Chorrock. 
copse,  Gebilsch. 
corduroy,   ein   sehr   starkes  ge- 

ripptes  Zeug  zu  Bein- 

kleidern. 
coronet,  Herzog-,  Grafenkrone, 
corpse-candle,  Irrlicht. 
corse  (poetisch  fiir  corpse),  Leich- 

nam. 
corselet,  Brustharnisch. 
counter,  Ladentisch. 
counterfeit,  falsch,  nacligemacht. 
court-martial,  Kriegsgericht. 
course.  Gang. 
covet  (to),  begehren  (S.  238,  nicht 

g(5nnen). 
coward,  Feigling. 
cowl,  Kaputze. 
cowslip,  Primel. 

19 


-290     — 


coyness,  Ziiruckhfiltuiig,  Sprodig- 

keit. 
cozy,  gemiitlicli. 
cracked,  gesprungen. 
craft,  Fahrzeug. 
crag,  Fels. 
Cranmer,  engliscber  Reformator, 

der    ira    Jalire     1556 

als    Ketzer    verbranut 

wurde. 
crash,  Zusammenstuiz.  Kracli. 
crave  (to),  erflehen. 
crazy,  baufiillig,  verruckt. 
creed,   Lelire,   (Tlaubensbekennt- 

iiiss. 
crew,  Mannscbaft. 
croak  (to),  kracbzeii. 
crosier,  Biscbofsstab. 
crossing,  Fussweg,  der  liber  eine 

Fabrstrasse  fiibrt. 
croup,  Kreuz  des  Pferdes,  Kruppe. 
crown-stamp ,  officieller  Stempel. 
crumpled,  zusammengescbrumpft. 
crypt,  Gruft. 

cuff  (to),  mit  der  Faust  scblagen, 
culinary,  zur  Kiicbe  geborig. 
culprit,  der  Scbuldige. 
cumbrous,  scbwerfallig,  ungeleuk. 
curdle  (to),  gerinnen. 
currency,  Greld,  Wabrung. 
curricle,    leicbter  zweispiinniger 

Wagen. 
curriculum,  Kursus,  Unterricbts- 

plan. 
curry,  eine  scbarfe  indische  Sauce, 
curse,  Flucb. 
curtsey,  Knix. 
custard,  Eiercreme. 
cutlass,  Enterscbwert. 
cycle,  Cyclus. 


D. 

Daifodil,  die  gelbe  Narzisse. 
dainty,  fein,  zierlicb. 
Dan,  HeiT  (lat.  dominus.) 
dangle  (to),  baumeln. 
dapper,  klein,  niedlicb. 
dapple-grey,  apfelgrau. 


darling,  Liebling. 

dart,  Pfeil. 

dasbing,  fliessend,  kiibu. 

deartb.  Mangel,  Unfrucbtbarkeit. 

debaucbery,  Ausscbweifung. 

defiantly,  trotzend. 

deformed,  missgestaltet. 

degenerate  (to),  ausarten. 

deify  (to),  vergottern. 

deluge,  Siindflutb. 

demarcation  (line  of),  Grenzlinie. 

department,  Facb. 

destiny,  Scliicksal. 

deter  (to),  abscbrecken,  abbalten. 

dexterity ,  Ge wandtbeit . 

dilate  on  (to),  weitlauftig  erortern. 

dimple,  Grtibcbeu, 

dint.   Spur  eines  Scblages.     (By 

dint  of,  kraft,  vermoge.) 
disappointment,  Enttauscbung. 
discreetness.  Mass,  Klugbeit. 
disembowel   (to),   den  Leib   aui- 

scblitzen. 
disfrancbise  (to),  einer  Stadt  das 

Wablreebt     (der    Be- 

stecblicbkeit      halber) 

entzieben. 
disgrace,  Scbande. 
disguise.  Verkleidimg. 
disjointed,   unzusamraenbiingend , 

inconsequent, 
dismay,  Bestiirzung. 
dispart  (to),  auseinandergehen. 
dissever  (to),  trennen. 
dissipated,  liederlicb. 
dissolution,  Auflosung. 
dissolve  (to),  sicb  auflosen 
ditty.  Lied, 
dizzy,   scbwindelig. 
doat  on  (to),  zartlicb  lieben. 
dole  (to),  sparsam  verteilen. 
domain,  Gebiet. 
dotard ,     kindiscb     gewordener 

Greis. 
doublet,  AVamms. 
Downs  (tbe),  Ankerplatz  unweit 

der    engliscben    Stadt 

Deal, 
doze,  Scblummer. 
dragon-fly,Wasserjungfer,Libelle. 


291 


drain  (to),  aiistrinkeii. 
drench,  Regen,  Nasse. 
drivelling-,  Faselei. 
drowning-  (S.  160),   in   Thranen 

schwimmeud. 
drudge  (to),  sich  abarbeiten. 
drysaltery ,    Viktualienhandlung. 
dull  (to),  dampfen,  abstumpfen. 
dungeon,  Kerker. 
dyes,  Farben. 


E. 

Kcstasy,  Entziicken. 
ee  =  eye,  Auge. 
effective,  wii'kungsvoll. 
eke  =  also,  auch. 
elaborate,  sorgsam  ausgearbeitet. 
elk,  das  Elentier. 
elucidation.  Erkliirung. 
emanation,  Ausfluss. 
emblazoned,  beriihmt  macbend. 
embody  (to),  verkorpern. 
empty,  leer,  zwecklos. 
enamelled,  emailliert,  mit  Adern 

diu'chzogeu. 
encampment,  Lager, 
endearment,  Liebkosung. 
engine ,       IVIittel ,       Werkzeug, 

Maschine. 
enthralled ,     besiegt ,    gefangen 

gelialten. 
ephemeral,   voriibergehend ,   von 

kurzer  Dauer. 
ermine,  Hermelin. 
(Erroneously,  irrttindich. 
(Estranged,  entfremdet. 
eulogium,  Lobrede. 
euphony,  Wohlklang. 
evade  (to),  ausweichen. 
exasperate  (to),   reizen,   heraus- 

fordern. 
exemplified,  verkorpert. 
exotic,  auslandisches  Gewachs. 
expanse,  ausgedehnte  Flache. 
explicit,  bestimmt,  deutlich. 
expostulation,  Erorterung. 
expunge  (to),  ausstreichen. 
eye-socket,  Augenhohle. 


F. 

Failure,  Misslingen. 

fain,  gern. 

fairy,  Fee. 

fallow,  Brachfeld. 

falter,  stanmieln;  (S.  75)  schttch- 

tern  hervordringen. 
fanged,  in  Form  einer  Kralle. 
fanned,  angehaucht. 
farce.  Posse, 
fare  (to),   gut  oder  schleclit  an- 

kommen. 
fascination,  Zauber,  Bezaubenmg. 
fastidious,  eigen,  schwer  zu  be- 

friedigen. 
fay  =  fairy, 
feat,  That,  Heldenthat. 
fee  (to  hold  in),  zu  Lehen  haben. 
fester  (to),  schwiiren,  eitern. 
fickle,  unbestandig. 
fiend,  Damon,  Teufel. 
figure-head,  Gallion. 
fillip  (to),   leise  oder  scherzhaft 

schlagen. 
fir,  Tanne. 

fire-bucket,  Feuereimer. 
fire  up  (to),  Feuer  fangeii. 
fissure,  Biss. 

fitful,  unbestandig,  launig. 
flag  (to),  schwacher  werden. 
flat  (Musik),  Bmoll. 
flaunt,  Prunk. 
flaw  (S.  165),  Regenschauer  mit 

Wind, 
flawn,  Fladeu. 
fleshly  (S.  147),  unzttchtig. 
flight  of  stairs,  Treppe. 
flirt  (to),  kokettieren. 
flitting,  Umzug. 
flout  (to),  spotten,  necken. 
fold,  Schafhtirde. 
forecastle,  die  Back, 
forego  (to),  auf  etwas  verzichten. 
foretaste,  Vorgeschmack. 
fore-yardarra,  die  Fockraa. 
forfeit  (to),  verwirken. 
fosterage,  Pflege,  Aufzichen  bei 

einer  Amme. 
foster-brother,  Milchbruder. 
19* 


292 


fraught,  voll,  vereint  init. 

freak,  frecher  Streich. 

freighted,  befrachtet. 

fret  (to),  verzehren,  sich  gramen. 

frigid,  kalt. 

fringe,  Frause. 

fugitive   (poetry) ,   Gelegenheits- 

Gedichte. 
fume  (to),  wtitend  werden. 


G. 

Gadfly,  Stechfliege,  leichtsiuuiger 
Mensch. 

gait  (schottisch),  Weg. 

galingaie,  der  Galgen. 

gall  (to),  sclimerzen. 

gambol  (to),  spielen,  hiipfen. 

gamut  (Musik),  Skala. 

gang  (schottisch)  (to),  gehen. 

gangway  (starboard) ,  Gang  auf 
der  recliten  Seite  eines 
Schiifes. 

gaol,  Gefangniss. 

gap,  Lucke. 

garb,  Gewand. 

garish,  blendeud. 

garlic,  Knoblauch. 

gaud,  Juwel,  Zierrat. 

gauntlet  (to  run  the),  Spiessruten 
laufen. 

Gazette  (the  London),  das  oifizielle 
Blatt,  in  welchera  die 
Anstelluug  von  Civil- 
und  Militar  -  Beamten 
und  Offizieren,  die  etwa 
stattfindeude  Aende- 
rung  des  Familien- 
Namens ,  ebenso  wie 
die  Liste  der  Falliten, 
veroffentlicht  wird. 

geniality,  Sympathie,  Menschen- 
freundlichkeit. 

ghastly,  entsetzlich. 

Ghoul,  Damon,  Vampyr. 

glade,  Lichtung. 

glare,  blendendes  Licht. 

glean  (to),  sammeln,  auslesen. 

glee,  Freude. 


glen,  Schlucht,  Thai. 

glimpse,  fliichtiger  Blick. 

gloat  on  (to),  verliebt  anschauen. 

glossy,  glanzend. 

gnat,  Miicke. 

gnaw  (to),  nagen. 

god  one's  self  (to),  sich  vergSttern. 

gorge,  Bergschlund. 

gorgeous,  prachtvoll. 

gorse ,    Stechgiuster ,    Pfriemen- 

kraut. 
gossamer,  Sommerwebe. 
grant  (to),  gewahren. 
grate,  Feuerrost, 
grayling,  die  Aesche. 
greeting,  Gruss,  Empfang. 
grim,  grimmig. 

grizzly  (bear),  der  graue  Bar. 
groan  (to),  achzen. 
grocer,  Gewiirzkramer. 
grouse,  Auerhahn. 
grudge  (to),  missgonnen. 
guilt,  Schuld. 

gull,  Seemove,  Gimpel,  Tropf. 
gun-brig,  Kanonenbrick. 
gust,  Windstoss. 
gymnastics,  Turntibungen. 
gypsy,  Zigeuner. 
gyves,  Fesseln. 


Haggardness,  Hagerkeit. 

halo,  Hof  um  einen  Stern. 

harbinger,  Vorlaufer, 

harebell,  Glockenblume. 

hasp,  Haspe. 

hawk,  Habicht,  Falke. 

haze,  leichter  Nebel. 

heartiness,  Herzlichkeit. 

hebdomadally,  wochentlich. 

heed,  Acht. 

helpmate,  Gehulfin. 

hem,  Saimi. 

hemlock  (pine),  Schierlingstanne. 

hempseed,  Hanfsamen;  (S.  222, 
Anspielung  auf  den 
Strick  des  Henkers). 

heron,  Reiher. 


298 


best  =  behest,  Bet'elil,  Verlangen. 

hideous,  schreckhaft. 

hit  (S.  221),  Erfoig. 

hive   (to),    (S.    65)    eiusammeln, 

heiinbriugen. 
hoad  (to),  aufhaufen. 
hobble  (to),  hinken. 
hod,  Morteltrog. 
holly,  Stechpalme. 
holt,  Holzchen. 
homestead,  Heiuistatttf. 
homily,  Predigt. 
horu-book,  das  ABC-Buch. 
hostage,  Greissel. 
hothouse,  Treihhaus. 
hour-glass,  Saudglas. 
hues,  Farbenwechsel. 
hulk,  Rumpf  eines  Schiffes. 
humanities,  das  Menschliche. 
hunchback,  der  Buckelige. 
hustle    (to),    mit    den    Elbogen 

stossen. 
huxter,  Kramer, 
hybrid,  zwitterartig. 


Idlesse,  Unthatigkeit. 
ignoble,  unedel,  verachtlich. 
ill-omened,  ungliickverkiindend. 
immersed,  vertieft,  versunken. 
immunity,  Vorrecht. 
impecunious,  ann,  von  Geld  ent- 

blosst. 
imperative,  gebieterisch. 
implacable,  unversohnlich. 
incense,  Weihrauch. 
incumbrance.  Last, 
indigence,  Armut. 
ineffable,  unbeschreiblich. 
infelicitous,  schlecht  angebracht. 
infidelity,  Untreue. 
initiate  (to),  einfuhren. 
injured,  beleidigt. 
innovation,  Neuerung. 
insinuation,  boshafte  Anspielung. 
insolence,  Uebermut. 
installation,  Einfiihrung. 
instigate  (to),  verleiten. 
interchange,  Austausch. 


intervention,  DazwischenkiuUt. 
intoxicated,  benuischt. 
investigation,  Untersuchung. 
irrelevant,  der  Sache  fremd. 
islet,  kleine  Insel. 

J. 

Jack-boots,  Stulpenatiefel, 

jackdaw,  Dohle. 

jangle  (to),  misstonen. 

javelin,  Wurfspiess. 

jaws  of  Death,  Todesrachen. 

jerky,  uuebenmassig. 

jet,  Gagat. 

jilt  (to),  mutwillig  abweisen. 

jump  at  (to) ,   mit  Eifer ,   gierig 

ergreifen. 
juniper,  Wachholder. 
jury,  Geschworengericht. 
justliug,  Getiimmel. 
jut  (to),  hervorragen. 

K. 

Keg,  Tonnchen. 

kindred,  verwandt. 

knapsack,  Tornister. 

knight.  Bitter;  knight  hospi- 
taler, Bitter  des  Mal- 
teserordens. 

knitted  (S.  65),  gevnmden. 

1.. 

Lace,  Spitzen. 

lack,  Mangel. 

lackey,  Diener, 

lad,  laddie,  Bursch. 

lair,  Lager. 

lap  (to),  schlappen  (wie  eineKatze.) 

larder,  Vorratskammer. 

lattice,  Gitter. 

launch  (to),  schleudem. 

laureate,  Hofdichter. 

lavish,  verschwenderisch. 

lawn  (S.  91),   Schleierleinwand ; 

(S.  106)  Basenplatz. 
league  (to),  sich  verbiinden. 


294     — 


league  (a),  drei  englische  Meilen. 

ledger,  Haiiptbnch,  Register. 

leech,  Arzt  (audi  Blutegel.) 

legislation,  Gesetzgebung. 

liberal  (S.  139),  frei,  oifen. 

Ucense  ( special ) ,  Erlaubniss 
seitens  der  geistlichen 
Behorde  zur  sofortigeii 
Trauuug,  ohne  den  Ver- 
lauf  der  gewohnlichen 
Frist  von  drei  Wochen 
abwarten  zu  miissen. 

lie  away  (to),  (S.  76),  den  guten 
Rut'  durch  Lligen  unter- 
grabeu. 

limes,  Lindenbaume. 

limn'd,  gezeichnet. 

lineage,  Herkunft. 

link,  Kettenglied. 

loan,  Darlehen. 

loath,  abgeneigt. 

loathe  (to),  hassen,  verabscheuen. 

lock  in  an  embrace  (to),  test 
umai-men. 

log  (S.80),Holzklotz  (zumBremien.) 

look-out  (to  be  on  the),  auf  der 
Lauer  sein. 

loom,  Weberstuhl. 

loon.  Art  Schwimmvogel. 

lore,  Wissenschaft,  Lektiire. 

lot  (bei  einer  Auktion)  Partie. 

lucrative,  gewinnbringend. 

lunch,  das  zweite  Friihstiick. 

lurid,  diister. 

luscious,  saftig. 

M. 

Machination ,     listiger     Streich, 

Koraplott. 
maggot,  Made, 
maid -of- all -work,  Madchen  fiir 

AUes. 
mail  (S.  43),  Panzerhemd. 
main,  hauptsjichlich. 
make  up  one's  mind  (to),  sich  zu 

'  etwas  entschliessen. 
make  up  a  cap  (to),  eine  Haube 

zurechtmachen  ,      an- 

fertigen. 


man-of-war,  Kriegsschiff. 
margent  =  margin.  Rand, 
marrowy ,     schwer ,     von    guter 

Qualitat. 
mastiff,  Dogge. 
match  one  (to),  Jemand  gewachsea 

sein. 
Match  (S.  225),  Heirat. 
mate  (to),  sich  zugesellen. 
mated  (S.  90),  ehelich  verbunden. 
maternity,  Mutterschaft. 
mawkish ,     wenig    schmackhaft, 

ekelhaft. 
mellow,  sanft,  reif. 
me'em,  vulgar  fttr  ma'am.  Madam, 
mercenaries,  Soldner. 
meseems,  es  diiuclit  mir. 
midshipman,  Seekadet. 
mince-meat,  klein  geschnittenes 

Fleisch. 
minister  (to),  dienen. 
mire,  Strassenkot. 
mischievous,  scljadlich. 
misguide  (to),  irrefiihren. 
miss  (to),  verfehlen,  versaumen. 
miss  (a),  Fehlschuss. 
missal,  Gebetbuch,  Messbuch. 
mist,  Nebel;  (S.  66)  Ratsel. 
mistress  (S.  137),  Ehehalft^. 
mite,  Kasemade. 
mitre,  Bischofshut. 
moan  (to),  stohnen. 
mock-disease,  Scheinkrankheit. 
mockery,  Spott,  Schein, 
modish,     nach     der    Mode    ge- 

richtet. 
mole,  Maulwurf. 
molten,  geschmolzen. 
monitor,  Ermahner. 
monster,   Ungeheuer,    Unmensch. 
mote,  Staubchen. 
motley,  bunt, 
mottled,  roth  angelaufen. 
mountebank,  Quacksalber.  Akro- 

bat. 
mouthpiece.  Organ,  Vertreter. 
muffled,  gedampft. 
mummy,  Mumie. 
murky,  dunkel,  diister. 
musk,  Moschus. 


—     295 


M. 

Narrowing   (S.    97),    eugherzig- 

machend. 
naughty,  unartig,  niclitswilrdig. 
nautch,  indisclie  Tanzeriu. 
newt,  Sumpfeidechse. 
nickname,  Spitzname. 
niddle-noddle,  (to)  hin  nnd  her 

wackehi. 
nidificate  (to),  ein  Nest  baiien. 
niggardly,  karglich. 
nightmare,  der  Alp. 
night-rack,   die  dnnkeln  Sturm- 

wolken. 
noon.  Mittag. 

notelessness,  Unberiihmtheit. 
niincheon,    Imbis:s    um    12    Uhr 

Mittag. 
nurse  a  thought  (to),   ehien  Ge- 

danken  hegen. 
nuitiire  (to),  aufziehen. 


o. 

Odd,  sonderbar. 

onion  stone,  schlichter  einfarbiger 

Stein, 
orange  blossoms,  Orangeubliiten 

(von  englischen  Damen 

bei   der  Trauung   ge- 

tragen.) 
out -babying,  an  Kindereien  iiber- 

treffend. 
out  -  of  -  the  -  way ,   unge  wohnlich, 

wenig  verbreitet. 


Pace,  Schritt. 

padded,  gepolstert. 

Paddy,  allgemeiner  Name  fiir  die 

IrlJinder. 
paean,  Triumpfgesang. 
palfrey,  Reitpferd. 
Iiall.  Talar,  Mantel, 
pall  (to),  schal  werden. 
palliatives,  Milderungsgriinde. 
palmy,  glucklich. 
palpitate  (to),  zittern,  pochen. 


pamphlet,  Broschiire. 
pander,  Kuppler. 
panoply,  Riistung. 
parchment,  Pergament. 
parricide,  Yatermord. 
pastime.  Zeitvertreib. 
patchwork  pastoral,  zusammenge- 
flicktes  SchJifergedicht. 
pattering,  klappernd. 
pavilion.  Thronhimmel,  Zelt. 
peep  (to),  gucken,  nachsehen. 
peer  (to),  durchblicken,  erscheinen. 
peerless,  unvergleichlich. 
pencilling,  Skizze. 
pennon,  Wimpel. 
perennial,  immerwahrend. 
periodical,  Zeitschrift. 
periwinkle,  das  Immergriin. 
personalities,  Anzugiichkeiten. 
pervade  (to),  durchdringen. 
petrel,  Sturmvogel. 
pettishly,  mutwillig. 
Pharos,  Leuchtturm. 
pied,  l)uut  angezogen. 

pile,  Gebiiude,  Haufen. 

pilfer,  stehlen,  mausen. 

pillaw,  Reis  in  Fett  gekocht. 

pinafore,  Kinderschiirze,Latzchen. 

pine  (to),  schmachten. 

pinion.  Flugel,  Fittich. 

pincushion,  Nadelkissen. 

pippin,  der  Pippin gapf el. 

pitching,  Stossen. 

plague,  Pest. 

plaudits,  Beifall. 

pleading,  Fiirsprache. 

Pleiades,  Siebengestirn. 

plinth,  Sockel. 

plodder,  Grubler. 

plot,  Handlung.  Intrigue. 

plover.  Kibitz. 

plumage,  Gefieder. 

plump  (to),  fiittern. 

poach  (to),  Wilddieberei  treiben. 

point  -  blank ,      geradezu  ,      ent- 
schieden. 

poker,  Ofengabel, 

ponder  (to),  erwagen. 

poppy,  Mohn. 

portent,  Vorbedeutung. 


—     296 


posies,  Bliunen. 
pranks,  toUe  Streiche. 
prate  (to),  schwatzen. 
precarions,  imsicher. 
pregnant,  inli  alts  vol! . 
presumptuous,  anmassend. 
prey,  Beute. 
prime,  Bliitezeit. 
primeval  (forest),  Urwald. 
primrose,  Prirael. 
principality,  Fiirstentum. 
prints,    Zeitungen,    audi   Holz- 

schnitte  u.  s.  w. 
proceeding  (the)  das  Verfahren. 
proctor,  Universitats-Behorde. 
profligate,  lasterhaft. 
progeny,  Kinder,  Nachkommen. 
prone  (to  sink),  zu  Boden  fallen, 
provender,  Proviant. 
provocation,  Reiz,  Antrieb. 
puling,  weinerlich. 
pun,  Wortspiel. 
puncheon,  Oxhoft. 
punctilious,  formell,  ceremonios. 
pupil,  Zogling. 
purloined    conceits ,    gestohlene 

Einfalle. 
puss,  Katze  (vergl.  civet.) 
puzzle,  Ratsel,  Schwierigkeit. 
pyre,     Holzstoss    zur    Leichen- 

verbrennung. 

a. 

Quaff(to),iu  grossen  Ziigen  trinken. 
quarry,  Steinbruch ;  (S.  164)  Beute, 

Opfer. 
quivering,  zitternde  Bewegung. 

B. 

Rail  (to),  wiiten,  schimpfeu. 
rank,  iippig  wachsend,  ekelhaft. 
rankle  (to),  eiteru,  um  sichfressen. 
ransom,  Losegehl. 
rapacious,  raubgierig. 
realm,  Beich. 

recalcitrant,  widerspenstig. 
reck  (to),  sicli  bewusst  sein. 
recreant.  verr;it"visch,  abtriinnig. 


recumbent  chair,  Lehnstuhl. 
reduplicate,     (to)      verdoppeln, 

wiederholen. 
rehearse  (to), probieren,  vortragen. 
reinforce  (to),  verstarken. 
reiterated,  wiederholt. 
rejoinder;  Erwiderung. 
reminiscence,  Erinnerung. 
renounce  (to),  entsagen. 
renovate  (to),  erneuern. 
repellent,  widerlich. 
replete,  sprudelnd. 
residuary  legatee,  Universalerbe. 
retail,  Kleinhandel. 
reverberation,  Wiederhall. 
reverses,  Gliickswechsel. 
reviewer,  Recensent. 
revoke  (to),  zuriicknehmen. 
riddle.  Ratsel. 
ridge,  Furche. 
rill,  Fliisschen. 
riven,  geraubt. 
rivet  (to),  befestigen,  nieten. 
roam  (to),  wandern. 
roan  (horse),  Fucbs. 
rochet,  feines  Chorhemd. 
rock  (to),  eine  Wiege  in  Bewegung 

halten. 
rolls  (hot),  warme  Semmel. 
roseate,  rosenfarben. 
rouge,  Scliminke. 
round,  Sprosse  einer  Leiter. 
Roundhead,  Puritaner. 
rout,  Rotte,  Niederlage. 
routs,  Festlichkeiten. 
rub-dub  (to),   wie  eine  TroTiime! 

t(3nen. 
ruff,  Halskrause. 
russet,  braunrot. 
rut,  Geleise. 
rutty,  holperig. 

Sacrilege,  Entweihung. 

sample,  Probe. 

sampler,  Stickmuster. 

sap,  Saft. 

satchel,  Biiclier,  Provianttawche. 

scale  (to),  erklimiTK^n. 


297 


scalp,  Hiruschale. 

scamp,  Taiig-enichts. 

scanty,  kuapp. 

scar,  Narbe. 

scoff  (to),  spotteln. 

scooped  aud  strained,  voni  Winde 
straff  gespanut. 

scope,  Plat^,  Raum. 

scourge,  Peitsclie. 

scrivener,  Notar. 

scullion,  Kiicheujunge. 

scroll,  PapierroUe. 

scythe,  Sense. 

sear  (to),  ausbrennen. 

sensuous,  unzilchtig. 

sentence,  Urteilssprucli. 

sepulchre,  Ruhestatte. 

sergeant,  Rechtsgelehrter ,  Ser- 
geant. 

shaft,  Pfeil. 

shallow,  Untiefe. 

sharp  (Musik),  Krems,  Erhohungs- 
zeichen. 

shattered,  zerrlittet,  zerstreut. 

shed  (to)  (S.  123),  ablegen. 

shell,  Muschel,  Sprengkugel. 

shift  (to),  Ziehen,  sich  andern. 

shingly,  voU  flacher  Steine. 

shirk  (to),  ausweichen. 

shoot,  Schossliug,  Zweig. 

shrew,  Spitzmaus. 

shrine,  Altar. 

shrivel  (to),  zusammenschrumpfen. 

shroud,  Leichentuch,  dasWanttau. 

sire  (poetisch),  Vater,  Konig. 

skirt  (to),  begrenzen. 

skittles  Oder  ninepins,  Kegelspiel. 

sledge,  Schlitten. 

sleek,  schlau,  gewandt,  fett. 

sleeve  (to  laugh  in  one's),  sich 
ins  Faustchen  lachen. 

smouldering,  glimmend. 

snub  (to),  grob  abweisen. 

snubby,  plattgedrlickt. 

soar  (to),  aufsteigen. 

sob  (to),  schluchzen. 

spectre,  Gespenst. 

spell,  Zauber. 

spent,  erschopft,  ermiidet. 

spray,  Zweig,  Seeschaum. 


sprightly,  lebhaft,  lustig. 
sprite  (poetisch  fur  spirit),  Geist. 
spume-flakes,  Schaumflockeu. 
squalid,  sclnnutzig,  unordentlich. 
squall,  Windstoss. 
squander  (to),  vergeuden. 
squat,  kurz  und  dick, 
squeeze  (to),  fest  driicken. 
squirrel,  Eichhorncheu. 
stab,  StichAvunde. 
stagger  (to),  wanken. 
stagnant    (Wasser,    etc.),    still- 

stehend. 
stake,  Scheiterhaufen,  Einsatz. 
stall,  Verkaufsstand. 
stamp  (to),  auszeichnen. 
stanch  (to),  Blut  stillen. 
stars    and    stripes,    die    ameri- 

kanische  Flagge. 
startish  game,  furchtsames  Wild, 
staunch,  fest,  bestandig. 
stave    (to),     den    Boden    aus- 

schlagen. 
stay,  ein  Stag  (Schiffstau.) 
stays,  Corsett. 
steadfast,  standhaft. 
steed,  Ross, 
stem   the   tide  (to),   wider   den 

Strom  schwimmen. 
steward,  Verwalter. 
stingy,  geizig. 
stirrup,  Steigbiigel. 
stock,  Fonds,  Aktien. 
stole,  Festgewand. 
store,  Vorrat. 
stove,  Heizofen. 
strain  (Musik),  Arie. 
strait,  eng. 
strait,  Meerenge. 
stratagem,  List, 
streamer  (S.  85),  Nordlicht. 
strenuous,  beherzt,  mannhaft. 
stripes,  Schlage. 
strown  (S.  149),   [mit  Muscheln] 

bedeckt. 
stubble,  Strohhalm. 
studded,  besetzt. 
studio.  Atelier, 
subordinate,  Untergebener. 
substantiate  (to),  beweisen- 


298 


succinctly,   kurz;    (S.    188)   an- 

geschmiegt. 
succulent,  nahrhaft. 
suggestion,  Wink,  EinflUsterung. 
suit  (of  clothes),  Anzug. 
suitor,  Freier. 

summary,  Auszug,   Compendium, 
summon  (to),  herbeirufen. 
surf,  Brandung. 
surfeit,  Unverdaulichkeit. 
surge,  Woge. 
surly,  murriscli. 
sway  (to),  lenken,   beherrschen ; 

in  leiser  Bewegung  er- 

zittern. 
swing,  Schaukel. 
swoon  (to),  in  Olinmacht  fallen, 
swart,  schwarz. 
sweep  (to),  fegen. 

T. 

Tamarisk,  Taraariskeubaum. 

tamper  (to),heimlicli  unterhandeln. 

tangled,  verwickelt. 

tap  (to),  picken,  anklopfeu. 

tamish'd,  ausgeblasst. 

tattered,  zerrissen. 

tawny,  braungelb. 

tax,  Steuer,  Abgabe. 

tease  (to),  qualen,  necken. 

teem  (to),  reich  an  etwas  sein. 

Temple -Bar,   altes  Stadtthor  in 

London, 
tenant  (S.  163),  Gast. 
terms    of    intimacy    (on),     auf 

freundschaftlichem 

Fusse. 
tender  (to),  anbieten. 
tether  (to),  anbinden. 
thaw  (to),  aufthaueu. 
Theirs  (S.  112),   ihnen  gebuhrte 

es  nicht. 
thraldom,  Knechtschaft ;  in  thral- 
dom   (S    165),    nach- 

gebend. 
threadbare,  fadenscheinig. 
thrill ,    Wonneschauer ,    Durch- 

schauern. 
thrive  (to),  gedeihen. 


throb  (to),  schlagen,  beben. 
thrust   (to)    and  parry,   stossen 

und  parieren. 
thrust,  Stoss,  Stich. 
tie,  Band. 

tiger-moth,  Tigermotte. 
tilt,  Tui-nier. 
tinge,  Anstrich. 
tingling,  zitternd,  wallend. 
tinkle  (to),  rauschen,  lauten. 
tinsel,  Flittergold. 
tint,  Farbenton. 

tintinnabulation,  Klingen,  Tonen. 
tip-tilted,  aufgestulpt. 
tit  fur  tomtit,  Kohlmeise. 
toad,  Krote. 
toll  (to),  lauten. 
tombstone,  Grabstein. 
topple  over  (to),  zuBoden  schlagen. 
tortoise-shell,  Schildpatt. 
toss  (to)  [S.  69],  sich  bin  und  her 

werfen. 
totter  (to),  wanken. 
tournament,  Turnier. 
toy,  Spielzeug. 
Trades'    Unions ,     Handwerker- 

Vereiue. 
train    (an    einem   Damenkleide), 

Schleppe. 
trance,  Ohnmacht,  Scheintod. 
trap-ball,  Schlagballspiel. 
trappings,  Putz. 
trash,  Schofel. 
treachery,  Verrath. 
treble,  dreifach;  (Musik),  Diskant. 
trefoil,  Klee. 

tremor,  Zittern,  Befiirchtung. 
trench  (to),  abstechen. 
trifling,  unbedeutend. 
trim  (to),  putzen. 
tripe,  Kaldaunen. 
trout,  Forelle. 
trowel,  MaurerkeUe. 
trunk,  Eeisekoffer. 
tuft,  Buschel. 
turbulency,  Ungestilm. 
turbulent,  aufruhrerisch,  uui'uhig. 
Turlough   (gh   stumm),    irischer 

Taufname. 
turmoil,  Aufruhr,  Getummel. 


299 


turnkey,  Getaiigiiisswarter. 
turtle-dove,  Turteltaube. 
tutelar,  schiitzeud. 
tutor,  Lelirer,  Meister. 
twain  =  two,  zwei. 
twang  (to),  drohneu. 
twin,  Zwilling. 
twinkle  (to),  funkelu. 

r. 

Udder,  Enter, 
umpire,  Schiedsrichter. 
unanimously,  einstimmig. 
uncongenial,  unsympatliisch. 
uncouth,  linkisch,  bauernhaft. 
undergraduate,  Student  der  noch 

nicht  promovirt  hat. 
underplot,  Nebenhandluug. 
unequivocal,   unzweifelhaft ,   un- 

zweideutig. 
imfathomed,  unergriindet. 
unfurled  (S.  40),  noch  nicht  ent- 

huUt. 
unquestionably,  zweifellos. 
unstinted,  unbeschrankt. 
upbraid  (to),  beschuldigen ,  vor- 

werfen. 
uphold  (to),  unterstiitzen. 
upstart,  Emporkonimling. 
urchin,  Knabe,  Zaunigel. 
usher,  Hilfslehrer. 
uttermost  (to  the),  aufs  Aeusserste. 

V. 

Vacant  (S.  110),  nichtssagend,  leer. 

vat  (cheese-),  Kasefass. 

vault,  Gruft. 

veins,  Adern. 

vent  (to  find),  sich  Lut't  machen. 

verdict,  Ausspruch,  Entscheidung. 

viand,  Speise. 

vie  (to),  wetteiferu. 

vigil,  Nachtwache. 

vivid,  lebhaft. 

void,  Leere. 

volley  (to),  krachen. 

voluptuary,  WoUustliug. 

voter,  Stimmgeber. 


1^. 

Wail,  Wehklage. 

waive  (to),  auf  etwas  verzichten. 

wake,dasKielwasser  eines  Schiffes. 

wand,  Zauberstab. 

wanton  (S.  209),  ein  leichtsinniges 

Frauenzimmer. 
warble  (to),  trillern,  schmettern. 
ward,  Mtiudel. 

warden,  Vormund,  Beschiitz<ir. 
waterbreak,  Wellenbruch. 
wedge,  Keil. 
weed,  Unkraut. 
welling,  hervorsprudelnd. 
well -tempered  (S.  136),  passend 

gehartet. 
well-to-do,  wohlhabend. 
wench  (ver  altet)  ,Madchen  od.Frau. 
whistle,  Pfeife. 

wield  (to),  handhaben,  gebrauchen. 
wight,  Bursch,  Jiingling. 
willow,  Weidenbaum. 
vdndow-ledge,  Fensterbriistung. 
winnow   chaff   (to),    Spreu   aus- 

sondern. 
winsome,  gewinnend,  einnehmend. 
wisp,  Strohwisch. 
wits'  end  (to  be  at  one's),  sich  nicht 

mehr  zu  helfen  wissen. 
Witan  Oder  Witangemote,  angel- 

sachsischer  Staatsrat. 
wizard,  Zauberer. 
womb  (S.  66),  Schoss. 
woof,  Gewebe,  Faden. 
worry,  Plage,  Qual. 
worst  (to),  besiegen. 
would-be  (man  mochte  sein)  Nach- 

ahmer. 
wrangle  (to),  hadem. 
wreck,  Wrack,  Triimmer. 
wrestle  (to),  ringen. 
wrongs,  gelittene  Unbill. 

Y. 

Yard-arm,  der  Arm  der  Raa. 

yell  (to),  gellen. 

yeoman,  Freisasse. 

yew-tree,  Taxus. 

yore  (of),  aus  anderen  Zeiten. 


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